


The Girl Without a Mark

by Gracetheauthor



Series: Sherlock Stories [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, American Reader, Based on a Tumblr Post, Bullying, Depression, Don't Judge Me, F/M, Foul Language, Graphic Designer Reader, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, John is Not Amused, John is confused, Mentions of Murder, Partial Blindness, Reader gets a tattoo, Reader is from New Orleans, Sherlock cares whether he admits it or not, Sherlock gets inked, Sherlock in love; Eventually, Slow Burn, Soulmate AU-Birthmarks tha change color when you touch your soulmate, Swearing in French, Tattooed!Reader, Tattoos, Tragedy, blood and dirt, eventual smut: maybe, i keep writing this at 1-2 in the morning, i really fucking wish someone would kick donovan's teeth into her nasty hate filled throat, i really need to sleep lol, im really bad at tagging, marijuana-infused brownies, mentions of drug abuse, much angst, much fluff, much love, much sad, sherlock thinks he's funny, sherlock x reader - Freeform, tattooed!Sherlock, threats of bodily harm/placing bodily waste into people's belongings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2020-07-28 14:44:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 29,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20065759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gracetheauthor/pseuds/Gracetheauthor
Summary: There is something that humans don't understand and have been wondering about for thousands of years, asking questions that go unanswered.What is it? It's birthmarks. Everyone has a birthmark.They are not your average birthmark. They always start out black but change into these beautiful, multicolored shapes on our skin. They are handprints, fingerprints, odd-looking shapes, impressions of lips, almost like lipstick marks.Some unfortunate soul has a black hand-print on their cheek. They are black spots on your knuckles as if you've punched someone who wore black ink on their face and now you can't get it off of you.But they've been there since birth. We still don't understand the hows of it, or really the exact why of it. They change color when you touch someone, or when someone touches you in the same exact way that the mark appears, swiftly fading from black to a multitude of colors, like a rainbow with every gradient of every beautiful color. But it's not just any person that changes your mark to that beautiful bright mark.It's your soulmate, your Significant Other.  Everyone has a mark.Everyone except me.





	1. Unlike the Others

**Author's Note:**

> I literally had another one of those "hey let us stay up until we write some bits of a story that I probably won't finish" moments. It's 2:42 am don't judge me.
> 
> Let me know if you like it, if it sucks if you would like more. Honestly.
> 
> Please.  
Fukkin.  
comment.
> 
> Let me know what's wrong, if you have any suggestions, criticism, etc. 
> 
> SAY SOMETHING DONT BE A GHOST READER

In this world in which we live, there is life. There is the normal, everyday drama and routine, the nine-to-five work shifts and pretty much everything else you can imagine. There is rape, murder, theft, lies, deceit, trickery and every bad thing imaginable. There is love, hope, kindness, charity, and many good things as well. But there is yet another thing, in this life, one that you may never expect. One that we as humans still don't understand. We have been wondering about it and researching it for thousands of years, but we still are asking questions that we simply don't have the answers to.

What is it? Someone may ask. Well, put simply, birthmarks.

Only they are not your average birthmark, no. They always start out black but change into these beautiful, multicolored shapes on our skin. They are handprints, fingerprints, odd-looking shapes, impressions of lips, almost like lipstick. They are like black spots on your knuckles as if you've punched someone who wore black ink on their face and now you can't get it off of you. But they've been there since birth.

And now comes the part that we still don't understand the hows of it, or really the exact why of it.

You see, these marks change color when you touch someone, or when someone touches you in the same exact way that the mark appears, swiftly fading from black to a multitude of colors, like a rainbow with every gradient of every beautiful color. But it's not just any person that changes your mark to that beautiful bright mark.

It's your soulmate. The left to your right, the light to your dark, the sun to your moon. You are each your own person, there's no “better half” or “other half” to it. There's Yin and Yang to it. Peanut butter and jelly. Two separate entities, but better when together. Do you understand what I mean? This person is your “fated mate” as some say. Your Significant Other. Everyone has a mark.

Like the guy with the black hand-print over his heart, somewhere out there is someone with a black palm. Some unfortunate soul has a black hand-print on their cheek, poor sap. Everyone has a mark.

Everyone except me.

I don't have a single black mark on me. The only black thing about me is my hair, but that's natural, and it's a recessive gene I inherited from my grandmother. I got teased and bullied for it a lot. People would tell me that it must mean that I'm a freak, that I am destined to be forever alone. It hurts, I tell you, and I try to give them a blank face but goddamn it, it hurts.

My parents always told me that they were sure I'd find someone, someday, and that I was indeed very much loved, and I did my best to believe them. But I would come home crying because it was just so bad at school, especially since it was a small town and practically everybody knew who you were so there was no escaping the torment.

I didn't have any friends, except for maybe my next-door neighbor, Jax, but she moved during our sophomore year of high school, and despite promising to be in touch, she just stopped talking to me. She eventually said she had never had a better friend than me, but that she was starting to lose her family and other friends because she was hanging out with “a freak of nature.” Her family's words, not mine. I understood that when you have no one else, and family is all that you've got, well, you cling to it, so I just let her go.

And I clung to my family. I clung to my mom and dad, my grandmother like a lifeline because that's what they were to me.

But when they all died in a car accident, I didn't have anything left to cling to and I felt so lonely, living in the house by myself, seeing all of our pictures on the wall, having to plan the funeral completely on my own. Having to deal with the half sincere condolences on my behalf at the triple funeral, having to hear the barely concealed comments about being a freak and how it was probably better that I was all by myself so that nothing bad would happen to anyone else. Like it was my fault my family was killed by a stupid fucking drunk driver and his dumbass fucking friends who were all drunk and didn't have the sense to call a fucking taxi. That because I did not have a single black birthmark, it was my fault my family died. Like it was somehow my fault I wasn't like them.

I couldn't handle it anymore.

I packed my things, took some mementos from each of my family member's room, stored the rest and moved. I moved all the way to London, England where nobody knew me, and where nobody knew that I didn't have a mark.

It was easy for me to find a job, as graphic designers were in high demand, and I worked freelance. I already had a pretty decent reputation in my area of expertise, so making connections wasn't too hard. Finding a place to live was proving a bit more challenging, so I'd been staying at a hotel for a few days. The second day being in London, I got offered a job by a nearby hospital called St. Bartholomew's but everyone just referred to it as St. Bart's. They said they needed an update to their graphics, such as their posters and information boards, etc. Basically, anything that could be altered to be more aesthetically pleasing, but more precisely, they wanted new wall murals, particularly in the children's wing.

So I, of course, said yes, went there to get the details sorted out, got the badge that allowed me to walk around unfettered and began to wander around to get a feeling of what needed updating and refreshing. I wandered all the way down to the morgue, much to my surprise, but shrugged it off. I opened the door to see four people already in one of the medical labs and tilted my head. Now, I'm not a detective, but years of closing myself off to others so that I could read them better and hurt them emotionally before they could do it to me had taught me a thing or two about observation.

There were three men and one woman. The woman was in a white lab coat with a ponytail and a soft face. She was a quiet woman, sort of shy, awkward, seemed to have a crush on one of the men whom she glanced to every few seconds that she wasn't staring at me. There was a pudgy man, sort of short, a professor of some sort, an old college friend of the man who stood next to him.

The other man, at least four or five inches taller than the pudgy one had dirty blonde hair that was almost silvery brown in certain light carried himself like a soldier; straight shouldered, posture straight, gaze pointed and assessing, if not a bit weary but also curious. He had hardly any callouses on his hands, but they looked to be sort of comforting and skillful, so perhaps a military doctor or nurse, though my guess was he'd be a doctor. He didn't look the type to take orders unless the orders were from someone much higher up. He carried a cane, probably limped a bit, but he didn't appear to be in any pain so maybe it was an old habit, or maybe he was going through physical therapy. I don't know, I am mostly guessing, to be honest with you. I could be wrong, I could be right.

Now the other man, the taller one. Curly dark hair, piercing eyes that didn't quite seem green or blue but had a mostly blue tint to them, a bright spark of intelligence behind them. I felt like maybe he was trying to assess me the way I was trying to assess him and the others. Tall, maybe six feet, incredible cheekbones, pale pink lips, a striking face that held slight curiosity but mostly boredom. Long dark trenchcoat, perhaps dark blue or black, that scarf was definitely blue, well dressed, judging by the slacks peeking out from underneath said trenchcoat as well as the well worn brown shoes he wore. The air around him seemed to call to me. Perhaps his intelligence, and I didn't doubt for one second that he was most likely a genius of some sort, was something that made others single him out and shun him the way others shunned me when they learned I had no birthmark to speak of.

I took in a deep breath.

“Well, hello,” I exhaled.


	2. Fire in Her Eyes

Sherlock studied the black-haired woman in front of him. She was petite, maybe five feet two inches, but looked like she could toss anyone her pissed her off onto their ass. Curvy, clothed in simple jeans, black boots, a black leather jacket over a white shirt. Both ears pierced, signs of a lip ring on the left side of her bottom lip, flawless skin, and eyes that showed no emotion save for defiance, like she had been singled out for something she couldn't control and therefore was pretty fiery about it. She was American, going by her accent, somewhere near New Orleans, as she had a faint Cajun French lilt when she spoke. An only child, mid-twenties, suffered a tragedy and moved to get away. Artist, going by the smudge of charcoal on her cheekbone, perhaps her chosen profession.

Her posture was defensive, spine ruler-straight, shoulders back, teeth bared in imitation of a smile that Sherlock knew was actually a challenging snarl. But what she was challenging them to, he didn't know as she seemed to be the type to keep it a closely guarded secret, so he then came to the conclusion that it was the very thing she couldn't control and had been singled out for. Her hands twitched, fingers curling slightly, drawing his attention to her fingernails. They were like rounded points, most likely filed that way on purpose (perhaps to intimidate somehow?) as that's not the natural shape nails grow into and there were traces of charcoal on her fingertips, too. There was animal hair on her pant legs, short, pale, almost whitish silver and coarse belonging to a dog she owned.

He told her all of this and she merely smiled at him.

“Now,” he said. “Have I got all of that correct?”

“Nearly, darlin,'” she drawled. “It's not a dog.”

“There's always something,” he muttered.

“It's a horse.”

“A horse? Why didn't I know that?”

“Most people don't have horses unless they have a ranch or breed them or want to use them for pets. I have a horse, but I am keeping it stabled as close to my hotel as possible. I raised it from a foal.”  


“What breed? I'm guessing either a cremello or dapple grey.”

“Clydesdale, silver dapple.”

“You're rather small to be handling such a massive horse.”

“You forget already, darlin,' I raised Iah from a foal. He knows my weight and how I handle him. He listens to me because he learned a long time ago, that I am the one in control.”

“Iah, the Egyptian god of the moon, associated with Toth. Why?”

“He is silver-white like the moon, and he is rather wise and smart, much like Toth.”

“Excuse me,” the military man interrupted. “Tooth? A horse, what?”

“Toth, Doc,” I said, smiling in delight at his confusion. “Egyptian god of the moon, writing, science, magic, and speech who is also very wise and smart. Don't ya read mythology?”

“Not really,” he replied. “how did you know I'm a doctor?”

“Well you carry yourself like a soldier but while your hands are like a soldier they aren't calloused the way a regular soldier's are so, therefore, you must have been either a nurse or a doctor and I really can't see you being a nurse,” I added. “I'm observant, sir. Don't read too much into it. I'm not some sort of CIA or MI6 agent. Just a lowly graphic designer.”

“You're looking for a place to live,” the taller one interrupted.

“Yes, sir, I am,” I replied.

“Good. I'll meet you both at 7, I'll text you the address.”

“Your name, Sir.”

“Sherlock Holmes,” he replied, sweeping out of the room.


	3. Oh, you don't do it like that here?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not every chapter will follow the show exactly word for word or action for action, but for the next few chapters they do, simply for sake of establishing John, Yn and Sherlock's relationships with one another.
> 
> It is once again almost 2:4o am and I've been writing since 11 pm. So. lucky you, you get a few more chapters. However, I am going to bed after I post the chapter that comes after this one. You'll just have to wait. as always, don't forget to tell me what you like, dislike, if there are any typos, etc.
> 
> Oh, and Yn = Your Name. I write it that way cuz i dislike writing it like "Y/N," cuz my brain always pronounces it like an actual name. It pronounces it like Yin. so yea, that's the closest you'll get to that lol.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I used the summary as an Author's note.  
I don't care.  
fite me.  
*squares up*  
Jk. Im going to bed. Have a good day/night/evening, y'all.
> 
> August 3rd 2019: Edited the chapter. Might want to reread it. not any major changes, just minimal ones to help the story flow better

I stared after him for a bit, before turning back to the others and a slightly uncomfortable silence fell. The doctor turned and looked at me incredulously.

“Is that it?”

“Is that what?” I asked.

“We’ve only just met and we’re gonna go and look at a flat?” he seemed weirded out. Well, stunned is the word, actually.

“Problem?” I frowned. Didn't people do this all the time here? Maybe it was just Americans who did?

The doctor smiled in disbelief, looking across to the other man for help, but his friend just continued to smile. The doctor turned back to me.

“We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name,” he said. I peered at him.

“Is this not how y'all do it here?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, back home, its rather common for strangers to just arrange meetings for stuff like this,” I waved a hand. “Dates, potential roommates, business dinners, etcetera, etcetera.”

“Uh, no, not really,” he replied. “At least not to my experience. So you really are American?”

“Yes, sir,” I let my accent drawl out, thick as honey. “I'm from a small town near New Orleans, Louisiana, born an' raised. Ya ever have any questions 'bout the United States and I will do my best to explain. Also if I say anythin' funny soundin' to you and you doan una'stand, I'll let you know what it means.”

He gave me a funny look like he barely understood what I said. Oops. My accent had gotten thicker than I intended it to.

“What the bloody hell did you just say?”

I laughed, then cleared my throat before speaking with less of an accent.

“I told you to ask me to explain if I ever say something odd, or to ask me anything about my home country if you ever get the urge to know something. Sometimes a native-born American can explain things better than the internet.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I still don't know your name. I'm John Watson.”

My phone pinged and I took it out of my pocket to see a text. I looked up at him.

“My name is Yn Deveaux, and the address is two two one B Baker Street,” I replied. “If y'all will excuse me, I've got a mural for the children's wing to plan. Have a good evenin', Miss. Sirs.”

I tipped my head in farewell and left.


	4. Who cares what's decent when you've got human skulls and a triple suicide?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's hard to write edit a whole new main character into a previously existing transcript, so I apologize if Yn isn't doing or saying much in this chapter. I also apologize if I made it seem like everyone forgot about Yn.
> 
> August 3rd 2019: Edited to make the story flow better. Might want to reread this. Not required, though.

The next day, at 7 o clock, I arrived at the address by way of taxi, which the majority of the population refers to as a “cab.” How interesting it is to hear the different words and slang used for the same things in different parts of the world. I turned to the flat, only to see the very man who texted me the address get out of a cab of his own. He gave me a brief smile, one with hardly any emotion, but I could detect that he was pleased that I had shown up on time. We both turn to the door to see John Watson knock on it, and walk up to him. The top step is a tad small so I stood at the bottom one while this Holmes guy stepped up beside him.

“Hello,” he said to Watson, who turned to him.

“Ah, Mr. Holmes, Ms. Devon.”

I grimaced at the mispronunciation of my last name.

“It's Deveaux, Mr. Watson.”

“Sherlock, please.”

Sherlock and I spoke at the same time and Watson gave us both a look as he shook hands with Sherlock. I smiled prettily at him.

“Please, call me Yn, but for god's sake, please try to pronounce my last name correctly,” I said as evenly as I could.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “People mispronounce it often?”

“Apology accepted. An' yea, quite often.” It's annoying.

He turned to Sherlock.

“Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal,” he explained. “Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out.”

“Sorry-you stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock replied. “I ensured it.”

He smiled at John and I laughed as the front door was opened by an older lady, who opened her arms to Sherlock.

“Sherlock, hello,” she greeted him in a kind, almost grandmotherly voice.

Sherlock turned and walked into her arms, hugged her briefly, then stepped back and presented John and I to her.

“Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson, and Yn Deveaux.”

'Hello,” she greeted us. She seemed kind. Like a grandmother who would tell you she's not your maid but would make you tea or coffee anyways.

“How do?” John replied. I waved hello.

She gestured us inside, saying, “Come in.”

“Thank you,” John and I said.

“Shall we?” Sherlock asked.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Hudson replied.

We walked inside and Mrs. Hudson closed the door behind us. Sherlock trotted up the stairs to the first-floor landing with me close behind him, then paused, causing me to almost trip before righting myself, and waited for John to hobble upstairs. As John reached the top of the stairs, Sherlock opened the door ahead of us and walked in, revealing the living room of the flat. I shared a loom with John and we followed him in. I looked around the room, noting all the possessions and boxes scattered around haphazardly.

Well, this could be very nice,” John said after a minute. “Very nice indeed.”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.”

“I rather like this,” I commented. “Feels like my old house, except without all the sadness and a lot more mess. No offense,” I added.

Sherlock simply looked at me, pleased with my comment and looked around the flat, happy.

“So I went straight ahead and moved in,” Sherlock said at the same time that John replied with, “Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out... Oh.” I chuckled as he looked embarrassed and wandered around the room.

“So this is all...” John trailed off as I picked up a skull I had spotted on the mantelpiece.

“Well, obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit,” Sherlock seemed a little sheepish and made a halfhearted attempt to tidy up a little, throwing a couple of folders into a box. I looked up from inspecting the skull for a second to watch him take some apparently unopened envelopes across to the fireplace where he put them onto the mantelpiece and then stabbed a multi-tool knife into them. John noticed the skull in my hands and lifted his cane to point at it.

“That’s a skull,” he said. Duh.

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock told him. “When I say ‘friend’...” he trailed off.

A noise had my attention and I turned to see that Mrs. Hudson had followed us into the room. She picked up a cup and saucer while Sherlock took off his greatcoat and scarf.

“What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms,” she said, then turned to me. “There's also another one downstairs, dearie, you can have that one if you'd like.” I thanked her.

“Of course we’ll be needing two,” John sounded indignant and I giggled. Mrs. Hudson thought they might be gay, how adorable. Though I couldn't say I knew why she might think that. Neither John nor Sherlock gave any signs of being gay. Maybe I was just better at seeing the truth than other people were.

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here” she gained a confidential tone, dropping her voice to a whisper by the end of the sentence, “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.” I had to cough to hide the laughter that threatened to burst out.

John looked across to Sherlock, apparently expecting him to confirm that they are not a gay couple but Sherlock appeared oblivious to what was being insinuated. Oh, this was too good. Mrs. Hudson walked across to the kitchen, then turned back and frowned at Sherlock.

“Oh, Sherlock” she reprimands him. “The mess you’ve made.”

She went into the kitchen and I followed her to help her start tidying up. She looked back at me with a look of surprise on her face, obviously not expecting any help.

“Oh, you don't have to help, dearie,” she told me.

“I wouldn't feel right, Mrs. Hudson,” I shook my head. “My momma didn't raise a selfish brat.”

“You're American?” she asked, seeming delighted as she placed a bunch of beakers carefully onto the kitchen counter.

“Yes, Ma'am,” I replied, finding a clean looking rag from near the stove to wipe up the liquids the had been beneath the beakers. Parts of the rag sizzled as it came into contact with the liquids and I gave it a mystified look, wondering what in the hell Sherlock was messing with that was acidic.

“Which part of America are you from?” she took the rag from me, holding it between her forefinger and thumb and threw it into the trash bin beneath the sink.

“Louisiana State. A small town near New Orleans,” I leaned against the wall.

“I've always wanted to visit New Orleans,” she told me coming to stand in front of me. She might have been older but I'm rather short and she was about five feet, five inches, making her three inches taller than me. “Is Mardi Gras as crazy and wild as it seems?”

“Pretty much,” I grinned. “I wouldn't go if you are not fond about copious amounts of alcohol, naked skin and flashing.”

“Flashing?” she was obviously confused, probably had never even heard of the word.

“It's like mooning someone, except with your breasts or other private bits, and it's quick, like a flash. That's why it's called that.”

“That makes more sense now,” she commented but deigned to elaborate. I shook my head at her, smiling. She picked up a newspaper near the microwave and walked out of the kitchen. I followed, not wanting to be left out.

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” she said to him. “I thought that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.” Sherlock walked over to the window of the living room as the sound of a car pulling up could be heard from outside.

“Four,” he said.

I wandered over to join him and we both looked down at the car as someone got out of it. It was a police car with its lights flashing on the roof. I wondered what it was doing here. Wait, maybe it was because there'd been another.

“There’s been a fourth,” he said. “And there’s something different, this time.” So I was right.

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson echoed.

Sherlock turned as a cop (who apparently must have picked the lock on the front door, how ironic) trotted up the stairs and into the living room. I read the badge hanging around his neck. D.I Greg Lestrade.

Oh, another person with a French surname. I wondered if people mispronounced his surname, too.

“Where?” Sherlock asked.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens.”

“What’s new about this one? You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

Is this what Sherlock did for a living? Acted as some sort of consultant for the cops? I had a feeling he was a detective of some sort since he'd never really told me exactly what it is he does.

“You know how they never leave notes?” Lestrade said.

“Yeah.”

“This one did. Will you come?”

'Who’s on forensics?”

“It’s Anderson.”

Sherlock grimaced, his disgust for this Anderson person plain as day upon his face.

“Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant.”

“I need an assistant.”

“Will you come?” Lestrade seemed insistent. Perhaps he was desperate?

“Not in a police car. I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you.”

Lestrade looked around at John, Mrs. Hudson and I for a moment, then he turned and hurried off down the stairs. Sherlock waited until he reached the front door, then leaped into the air and clenched his fists triumphantly before twirling around the room happily.

“Brilliant! Yes! Ah, four serial suicides, and now a note! Oh, it’s Christmas!”

I shook my head in morbid amusement as he picked up his scarf and coat to put them on while heading for the kitchen.

“Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.'

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” she reminded him. I laughed and she looked at me a moment, but I shook my head, telling her it was nothing. She might think me rude if she knew why I was laughing. Something about Sherlock's antics and mannerisms made me like him a lot. He was rather funny without ever intending to be and from what I could tell, he was not the kind of person who would make pretty small talk to your face and talk shit behind your back. Something I rather liked about him.

“Something cold will do. John, Yn, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!”

He opened the kitchen door and disappeared from view as Mrs. Hudson turned back to John and me.

“Look at him, dashing about!” she exclaimed. “My husband was just the same.”

John grimaced at her repeated implication that he and Sherlock are an item, while I shook my head with a smile.

“But you’re more the sitting-down type, I can tell,” she went on and John looked uncomfortable so I patted his shoulder comfortingly, giving him a grin to which he only frowned at.

Mrs. Hudson turned to the kitchen, saying to John, “I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

“Damn my leg!” he said, rather loudly, obviously ticked. I gave him a look even as he immediately apologized to Mrs. Hudson who had turned back to him in shock.

'Sorry, I’m so sorry,” he said. “It’s just sometimes this bloody thing...” he trailed off and bashed his leg with his cane.

“I understand, dear; I’ve got a hip,” Mrs. Hudson told him. And turned towards the kitchen again.

“Nice save, Watson,” I muttered to him and he shot me a glare.

“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you,” John replied to Mrs. Hudson.

“Just this once, dear. I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple of biscuits too, if you’ve got ’em.”

“Not your housekeeper!”

John picked up the newspaper that Mrs. Hudson had put down to read it. But before he can read on, Sherlock’s voice interrupted him and we both looked to see him standing at the living room door.

“You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an Army doctor,” Sherlock said, almost thoughtful. I could see his mind whirring in thought from where I still stood at the window.

“Yes,” John replied, getting to his feet and turned towards Sherlock as he came back into the room again.

“Any good?'

“Very good.”

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

“Of course, yes, he responded quietly. “Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Wanna see some more?

“Oh, God, yes.”

“And you,” I'm startled when he suddenly turns in my direction, having felt like I'd been basically forgotten.

“You're clever, observant, not squeamish?”

“Yes, sir,” I drawled, nodding.

Sherlock spun on his heel and strode out of the room and down the stairs, expecting us to follow. John called out to Mrs. Hudson as I pushed off the window to follow Sherlock.

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson, I’ll skip the tea. Going out.”

Mrs. Hudson came to stand near the door.

“Both of you?” she asked, seeming baffled. Sherlock had almost reached the front door but then turned and walked back towards her.

“Impossible suicides? Four of them? There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something fun going on!”

He took her by the shoulders and kissed her noisily on the cheek.

“Look at you, all happy,” she said to him. “It’s not decent.” She was smiling though as he turned away and headed for the front door again.

“Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!”


	5. Going by the state of her knees, she's the bitch that helps him cheat on his wife.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I really really hate Donovan. 
> 
> Yn just might put in her place later with some snappy comments and a well placed right hook, cop or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a bad habit of staying up til 2-3am to write these.
> 
> I should go to sleep, but I napped from like 12:30 to almost 8pm yesterday soooo...
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this chapter. As always, please let me know what you think, and if there are any typos or grammatical mistakes anywhere.

All three of us got into a cab and headed for Brixton. Sherlock sat with his eyes fixed on his smartphone on the left window side, with me in the middle and John on the right. There was quite a bit of silence for a long time, an almost awkward silence, but I had a thin-tipped sharpie in my jacket pocket and I took it out to draw on my left arm, pushing the sleeve up as far as it would go. John kept stealing nervous glances at Sherlock until the other man lowered his phone, glancing at the drawing on my left wrist before looking at John.

“Okay, you’ve got questions,” Sherlock said to him.

“Yeah,” John replied. “Where are we going?”

“Crime scene. Next?”

“Who are you? What do you do?”

“What do you think?”

“I’d say, private detective,” John said hesitantly.

“But?”

“But the police don’t go to private detectives.”

“I’m a consulting detective. Only one in the world. I invented the job.”

“I figured you were some sort of consultant,” I murmured, eyeballing the dragon head I had drawn on my wrist, and I from the corner of my eye I saw Sherlock look at me with that speculative gleam in his eyes and I smiled, sliding a sideways glance at him. He turned back to look at John once more.

“What does that mean?”

“It means when the police are out of their depth,” Sherlock told him. “Which is always, they consult me.”

“The police don’t consult amateurs.” I could feel the look Sherlock gave John and I chuckled quietly, causing both of them to look at me and I simply gave them both a blank expression.

“What?” I asked. Neither one said anything and I wondered if they knew what to make of me yet. So I rolled my eyes and went back to drawing while still listening to them talk.

“When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Afghanistan or Iraq?'” Sherlock said. “You looked surprised.”

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said you trained at Bart’s, so Army doctor–obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan–Afghanistan or Iraq.”

Sherlock loudly emphasized the ‘k’ sound at the end of the word “Iraq” and once again I found myself chuckling quietly. Sherlock continued to deduce things about John while I listened, and I was more and more impressed with his skills. I raised my head as his latest deduction came to a close to watch them interact.

“There you go, you see,” Sherlock told him. “You were right.”

“I was right?” John asked, clearly confused, “Right about what?”

“The police don’t consult amateurs,” Sherlock looked out of the window, biting his lip ( was he nervous?) while he awaited John’s reaction.

“That,” John said. “Was amazing.”

“Indeed, it was,” I agreed.

Sherlock looked back at us, apparently so surprised that he couldn’t even reply for the next four seconds.

“Do you think so?” he asked in such a way that told me that this was what made people single him out for being different; his ability to almost tell a person's whole life story just by looking at them and making connections most others would never think of.

“Of course it was,” John exclaimed.

“It was extraordinary,” I added. “It was quite extraordinary.”

“That’s not what people normally say,” Sherlock said to us.

“What do people normally say?” I wondered.

“‘Piss off’!” Sherlock smiled briefly at John and me, and John grinned and turned away to look out of the window as our journey continued. I gave Sherlock a smile of my own before going back to drawing the dragon head.

  


The cab soon arrived at Lauriston Gardens and Sherlock, John and I get out and walk towards the police tape strung across the road.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asked, referring to earlier in the cab.

“Harry and I don’t get on, never have,” John replied. “Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they’re getting a divorce, and Harry is a drinker.”

“Spot on, then,” Sherlock looked impressed with himself. “I didn’t expect to be right about everything.”

“And Harry’s short for Harriet,” John added, causing Sherlock to stop dead in his tracks. I had been right behind him, so when he suddenly stopped I ran into his back with an “oof.” He turned and steadied me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Harry’s your sister,” he said as John continued onwards.

“Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” John asked.

“Sister!” Sherlock hissed furiously through his teeth and I raised my eyebrows.

“No, seriously, what am I doing here?” John insisted.

Sherlock gave me an exasperated look and I shrugged before we started to walk again.

“There’s always something,” he muttered. We approached the police tape and were met with a dark-skinned woman whose badge said her name was Sergeant Donovan.

“Hello, freak,” she sneered and I immediately bristled at her tone. What a bitch.

“I’m here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,” Sherlock responded coolly as if she were an ant and he was a boot who didn't care if he stepped on her.

“Why?”

“I was invited.”

“Why?”

“I think he wants him to take a look,” I snapped sarcastically.

“Well, you know what I think, don’t you?” She continued as if I hadn't spoken. I could feel my temper rising. I moved here to escape bitches like her, and if she didn't stop running her nasty mouth, I was gonna punch it, police officer or not.

Sherlock lifted the tape and ducked underneath it as he said to her, “Always, Sally,” He breathed in through his nose. “I even know you didn’t make it home last night.”

“I don’t,” she looked at John and I, finally noticing us. “Er, who’s this?”

“Colleagues of mine, Doctor Watson and Yn Deveaux.”

He turned to us.

“Doctor Watson, Ms. Deveaux, Sergeant Sally Donovan.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Old friend.”

“A colleague?” she seemed baffled and I smirked. “How do you get a colleague?!”

“The same way you get an STD, Sergeant,” I told her. “

She turned to John and me.

“What, did he follow you home?”

“Would it be better if I just waited and...” John trailed off and I simply narrowed my eyes at Donovan.

“No,” Sherlock lifted the tape for us. As we walked under the tape, Donovan lifted a radio to her mouth.

“Freak’s here. Bringing him in.”

She lead us towards one of the houses. Sherlock looked all around the area and at the ground as we approached. As we reach the pavement, a man wearing a coverall over his clothes came out of the house.

“Ah, Anderson. Here we are again,” Sherlock said to him and the man, Anderson, looked at him with distaste.

“It’s a crime scene” Anderson's voice made me want to punch him, too. “I don’t want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?”

Sherlock took in another deep breath through his nose and I had to copy him to control myself.

“Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?” he asked.

“Oh, don’t pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that.”

I was immediately disgusted with him. Cheating on his wife? What a fucking scum rat.

'Your deodorant told me that,” Sherlock said casually.

“My deodorant?”

Sherlock turned to him with a quirky expression on his face, “It’s for men.”

“Well, of course, it’s for men! I’m wearing it!”

“So’s Sergeant Donovan.”

Anderson looked around in shock at Donovan. Sherlock sniffed pointedly. I laughed.

“Ooh, and I think it just vaporized. May I go in?” Sherlock asked with false sweetness.

Anderson turned back and pointed at him angrily, saying, “Now look: whatever you’re trying to imply-”

“I’m not implying anything,” Sherlock interrupted, heading past Donovan towards the front door. “I’m sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over.”

He turned back.

“And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees.”

Anderson and Donovan stared at him in horror. He smiled smugly, then turned and went into the house. John walked past Donovan and briefly but pointedly looked down to her knees, then followed Sherlock inside. I gave her the bird and a bared my teeth at her in a nasty smile before walking inside as well. Sherlock lead us into a room on the ground floor where Lestrade was putting on a coverall.

Sherlock pointed to a pile of similar items and said to John, “You need to wear one of these.”

“Who’s this?” Lestrade asked.

“They're with me,” Sherlock said, taking off his gloves.

“But who are they?” Lestrade insisted.

“I said they’re with me.”

John had taken off his jacket and picked up a coverall. He looked at Sherlock and I as we both picked up a pair of latex gloves.

“Aren’t you gonna put one on?” he says to the both of us.

Sherlock just looked at him sternly, while I simply muttered a soft, “No.” John shook his head as if to say, “Silly me. What was I thinking?” I shrugged back at him. I wasn't going to touch the body, so it didn't matter if I wore one or not. I figured my role was to stand there and observe what I could, but wearing the gloves was probably a good idea.

“So where are we?” Sherlock said to Lestrade.

Lestrade picked up another pair of latex gloves and said, “Upstairs.”


	6. But where is the case?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to post another chapter. Got busy and then sad for a few days but here it is.

Lestrade lead us up a circular staircase. Both him and John were wearing coveralls with white cotton coverings over their shoes and latex gloves. Sherlock put on his own latex gloves as we went up the stairs.

“I can give you two minutes,” Lestrade told Sherlock.

“May need longer,” he replied casually.

“Her name’s Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards,” Lestrade informed us. “We’re running them now for contact details. Hasn’t been here long. Some kids found her.”

He lead us into a room two stories above the ground floor. The room was empty of furniture except for a rocking horse in the far corner. Emergency portable lighting had been set up, presumably by the police. Scaffolding poles held up part of the ceiling near where a couple of large holes have been knocked through one of the walls. A woman’s body was lying face down on the bare floorboards in the middle of the room. She was wearing a bright pink overcoat and high-heeled pink shoes. Her hands were flat on the floor on either side of her head. Sherlock and I walked a few steps into the room and then stopped, with Sherlock holding one hand out in front of himself as he focused on the corpse. I stop a few feet behind Sherlock to look at John, who looked at the woman’s body, face filling with pain and sadness. The four of us stood there silently for several long seconds, then Sherlock looked across to Lestrade.

“Shut up,” he said.

“I didn’t say anything,” Lestrade startled, not expecting it.

“You were thinking. It’s annoying,” Sherlock replied, and despite the gravity of the scene before us, I felt a smirk tug at my lips. God, I was awful for smiling when a woman lay dead before me, but I could not help myself. It's true that things are always funnier when you're not supposed to laugh or smile.

I watched as Lestrade and John exchanged a surprised look as Sherlock stepped slowly forward until he reached the side of the corpse, deducting what he can. I decide to make some observations of my own.

Her nails were painted with pink nail polish, perfect save for the index and middle fingers on her left hand, where the nails were ragged and broken. There was a word near her hand, “Rache,” and it struck me as perhaps a German word, but It could also be a name. What kind of name starts like that? I think for a moment, before it comes to me, “Rachel.” She died before she could finish scratching it into the floor. No easy feat, it would have hurt, it would have been hard as well, hence the ruined fingernails.

Her clothes weren't cheap, but not expensive, she was well dressed if a bit over-exuberant with the pink. But it also indicated that perhaps she had a sort of professional job? Perhaps in the media, media people tended to have sort of bright, crisp, clean clothes. I wasn't too sure about her age as I couldn't see her face, but going by how her clothes fit her body, I would have said she was in her late twenties to early thirties.

Sherlock stood and took off his gloves, interrupting my train of thought as he smiled slightly in satisfaction at the poor woman's body before taking out his phone to type on it.

“Got anything?” Lestrade asked.

“Not much,” he replied nonchalantly, and I snorted.

_Not much, my ass._

“She’s German. ‘Rache’: it’s German for ‘revenge.’ She could be trying to tell us something,” Anderson said from where he casually leaned against the doorway. I eyeballed him in distaste. While Anderson had been speaking, Sherlock walked quickly towards the door and then began to close it in Anderson’s face. I smiled at that.

“Yes, thank you for your input,” he said, sarcasm evident in his voice as he slammed the door shut. He then turned and walked back into the room, messing around on his phone again.

“So she’s German?” Lestrade fished for information.

“Of course she’s not,” still messing with his phone. “She’s from out of town, though. Intended to stay in London for one night,” here he smiled smugly when he apparently found the information he needed. “Before returning home to Cardiff.” He put his phone away.

“So far, so obvious,” he commented.

“Sorry,” John interrupted. “Obvious?”

“What about the message, though?” Lestrade questioned.

Sherlock ignored him to look at John, “Doctor Watson, what do you think?”

“Of the message?”

“Of the body” Sherlock corrected. “You’re a medical man.”

"Wait, no,” Lestrade seemed alarmed. “We have a whole team right outside. “

“They won’t work with me.”

“I’m breaking every rule letting you in here,” the Detective Inspector protested.

“Yes, because you need me,” Sherlock countered.

Lestrade stared at him for a moment, then lowered his eyes helplessly.

“Yes, I do. God help me.”

_Wait. Was the London police force actually that incompetent? Good lord and the rest of the world thinks **America** is bad_.

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock urged.

“Hm?” John looked up from the body to Sherlock and then turned his head towards Lestrade, silently seeking his permission.

“Oh, do as he says,” Lestrade said, obviously irritated. “Help yourself.”

He turned and opened the door, going outside.

“Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes,” he barked.

Sherlock and John walked over to the body, with me trailing slightly behind. Sherlock squatted down on one side of it, I stood behind and slightly to the side of him as John painfully lowered himself to one knee on the other side, leaning heavily on his cane to support himself.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted.

“What are we doing here?” John asked softly.

“Helping me make a point,” Sherlock replied, equally as soft.

“We're supposed to be helping you pay the rent.”

“Yeah, well, this is more fun.”

“Fun? There’s a woman lying dead.”

“Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you’d go deeper.”

Lestrade came back into the room and stood just inside the doorway, as John dragged his other leg down into a kneeling position and then leaned forward to look more closely at the woman’s body. He put his head close to hers and sniffed, then straightened a little before lifting her right hand to look at the skin. He kneeled up and looked across to Sherlock.

“Yeah, asphyxiation, probably,” he told him. “Passed out, choked on her own vomit. Can’t smell any alcohol on her. It could have been a seizure; possibly drugs.”

“You know what it was” Sherlock replied. “You’ve read the papers.”

“She’s one of the suicides,” I chimed in. “The fourth, if the circumstances of the other three are anything to go by.” Sherlock turned and once more gave ma an appraising look and I did my best to smile and not blush.

_Damn, his eyes were intense._

“Sherlock,” Lestrade seemed impatient. “Two minutes, I said. I need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock stood up, while John struggled to get to his feet. I walked over to lend him a hand, ad he gave me an appreciative look before wrapping his hand around my forearm to use as support.

“Victim is in her late thirties,” Sherlock started and I listened, wanting to know if I'd gotten anything right. “Professional person, going by her clothes; I’m guessing something in the media, going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intending to stay in London for one night. It’s obvious from the size of her suitcase.”

“Suitcase?” Lestrade asked. Both John and I looked around for a suitcase but looked at one another when we didn't see one and I gave John a raised eyebrow. He shook his head.

“Suitcase, yes. She’s been married at least ten years, but not happily. She’s had a string of lovers but none of them knew she was married.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, if you’re just making this up,” Lestrade was not a happy camper right then.

Sherlock pointed to her left hand, “Her wedding ring. Ten years old at least. The rest of her jewelry has been regularly cleaned, but not her wedding ring. State of her marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shinier than the outside – that means it’s regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. It’s not for work; look at her nails. She doesn’t work with her hands, so what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover; she’d never sustained the fiction of being single over that amount of time, so more likely a string of them. Simple.”

“That’s brilliant,” John and I spoke at the same time on accident and Sherlock looked over at us.

“Sorry,” we once again chorused and I laughed a little, turning a bit red. John chuckled.

“Cardiff?” Lestrade prompted.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Sherlock asked as if we already knew the answer.

“It’s not obvious to me,” John said.

Sherlock paused.

“Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring,” he commented, turning back to the body.

“Her coat: it’s slightly damp. She’s been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London at that time. Under her coat collar is damp, too. She’s turned it up against the wind. She’s got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket but it’s dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind – too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance but she can’t have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn’t dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time?”

He got his phone out from his pocket and showed us the webpage he was looking at earlier, displaying today’s weather for the southern part of Britain.

“Cardiff.”

“That’s fantastic!” I cringed as we somehow did it again for the third time.

Sherlock turned to us and spoke in a low voice, “D’you know you do that out loud?”

“Sorry. I’ll shut up,” said John.

“I, er, don't mean to,” I apologized.

“No, it’s... fine,” Sherlock replied, seeming kind of pleased. Apparently, he didn't get that sort of reaction a whole lot.

“Why d’you keep saying suitcase?” Lestrade interrupted. Sherlock spun in a circle to look around the room.

“Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer,” he said. “Find out who Rachel is.”

“She was writing ‘Rachel’?”

“No, she was leaving an angry note in German,” the sarcasm dripped from Sherlock's voice. “Of course she was writing Rachel; no other word it can be. Question is: why did she wait until she was dying to write it?”

“How d’you know she had a suitcase?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock pointed down to the body, where her tights had small black splotches on the lower part of her right leg, “Back of the right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don’t get that splash pattern any other way. Smallish case, going by the spread. Case that size, a woman this clothes-conscious: could only be an overnight bag, so we know she was staying one night.”

He squatted down by the woman’s body and examined the backs of her legs more closely.

“Now, where is it? What have you done with it?” Sherlock asked the D.I.

“There wasn’t a case,” he replied.

Sherlock slowly raised his head and frowned at Lestrade.

“Say that again,” he demanded.

“There wasn’t a case,” Lestrade repeated. “There was never any suitcase.”

Upon hearing that, Sherlock immediately straightened, standing up and heading for the door, calling out to all the police officers in the house as he began to hurry down the stairs, with me hot on his heels.

“Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?” he called.

I looked back and up to see John and Lestrade on the landing.

“Sherlock, there was no case!” Lestrade yelled.

Sherlock slowed down but still made his way down the stairs.

“But they take the poison themselves; they chew, swallow the pills themselves,” he mused. “There are clear signs. Even you lot couldn’t miss them.”

I snickered at the jab at the police department's efficiency, or perhaps the lack of it.

“Right, yeah, thanks,” Lestrade was obviously not pleased. “And?”

“It’s murder, all of them,” Sherlock said. “I don’t know how, but they’re not suicides, they’re killings–serial killings.”

He holds his hands up in front of his face in delight, saying, “We’ve got ourselves a serial killer. I love those. There’s always something to look forward to. “

“Why are you saying that?” I asked. I liked his morbid glee, for it was refreshing but he did make me curious.

Sherlock stopped to call up to the others, not hearing (or simply ignoring) my question.

“Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case,” more quietly, as if he was talking to himself, “So the killer must have driven her here; forgot the case was in the car.”

“She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there,” John called from where he still stood upstairs.

Sherlock looked up again.

“No, she never got to the hotel. Look at her hair. She color-coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She’d never have left any hotel with her hair still looking-” he suddenly stopped as if he had realized something, eyes widening, face lighting up.

“Oh,” he clapped his hands together in glee like a five-year-old at Christmas.

“Sherlock?” John questioned.

“What is it, what?” Lestrade leaned over the railing.

Sherlock smiled cheerfully at me, “Serial killers are always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake.”

“We can’t just wait!' Lestrade yelled down.

'Oh, we’re done waiting!” Sherlock exclaimed, beginning to hurry down the stairs again. “Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff: find out who Jennifer Wilson’s family and friends were. Find Rachel!”

I followed him, taking the stairs two at a time and finally reached the bottom, only for him to nearly knock me over coming back to answer yet another yelled question from Lestrade. I turned and watched as he ran up a few steps.

“PINK!” he yelled.

He turned and I slipped something into his coat pocket as he went by. Hopefully, he'd be so busy searching for the dead woman's case that he wouldn't notice. I looked up to see a baffled Lestrade turn and goes back into the room while Anderson and his team hurried up the stairs to follow him. I saw John hesitate from where he still stood on the landing and I waved at him, motioning for him to come down. He saw me wave, and slowly started making his way down the stairs.

A couple more police officers hurried up and one of them bumped against him, throwing him off-balance, causing him to lurch heavily against the banisters. I scowled angrily as the cop hurried on without a word, although his colleague did at least give John an apologetic look as he passed. John regained his balance and continued down the stairs. I patiently waited for him to remove the scrubs and put his jacket back on before we walked out onto the street.


	7. Donovan needs some manners punched down her throat. Also, the phone booths keep ringing and I don't like it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I hate Donovan?
> 
> Let me know if you see any typos or grammatical mistakes, such as missing quotation marks and the like.

There wasn't a sign of our new flatmate anywhere, but that was to be expected. John still looked around as we walked back to the police tape where Donovan stood.

“He’s gone,” she said.

“Who, Sherlock Holmes?” John asked.

“Yeah, he just took off. He does that,” she replied.

“Is he coming back?”

“Didn’t look like it.”

“Right,” John looked around the area again thoughtfully.

“Right,” I commented. John turned back to the cop.

“Sorry, where are we?”

“Brixton.”

“Right. Er, d’you know where we could get a cab? It’s just, er, well,” John looked down awkwardly at his walking stick. “My leg.”

“Er,” Donovan stepped over to the tape and lifted it for us. “Try the main road.”

We ducked under, John thanked her, but I couldn't find enough politeness in me to do the same. Something about her just really set me off.

“But you’re not his friends,” Donovan just had to open her mouth. John and I looked at one another, then turned back to her.

“He doesn’t have friends. So who are you?” she continued.

“I’m, I’m nobody. I just met him,” John said, and I elbowed him for it, glaring. Nobody my ass, John, you're his new flatmate.

“I'm his fucking mother,” I snapped, sarcastic.

She glared at me, then addressed John like I wasn't even there.

“Okay, a bit of advice then: stay away from that guy.”

“Why?” John asked.

'You know why he’s here? He’s not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what? One day just showing up won’t be enough. One day we’ll be standing around a body and Sherlock Holmes’ll be the one that put it there.” I clenched my fists and stepped towards her, needing to punch her stupid teeth into her dumb fucking throat. The fact that she would be that toxic about someone she obviously barely knew at all was sickening and I really wanted to teach her the manners she should have been raised with. I have high respect for cops who just try to do their jobs. But cops who use their position as law enforcement to belittle and bully people? No.

“Why would he do that?” John asked, restraining me with a hand.

“Because he’s a psychopath,” she said. “And psychopaths get bored.”

“I'm no psychopath myself,” I told her. “But I'm getting bored of the words coming out of your mouth. Could I bloody it for you? That'd be fun, I promise. It would only hurt.”

Lestrade chose that moment to appear at the front of the house to yell for Donovan.

Donovan gave me a nasty look but only turned to yell back that she was coming. She turns back towards John and me as she walked towards the house.

“Stay away from Sherlock Holmes,” she said.

“You and your stupid mouth better stay away from me or I'll make you swallow your teeth,” I yelled, but only loud enough for her to hear. She seemed to take my threat seriously and headed off, walking as fast as she could.

John watched her go for a moment, then turns and begins to limp off down the road. I followed him and he glared at me.

“What the bloody hell is wrong with you?” he demanded. “You don't just threaten a bloody cop, Yn, you could get arrested.”

“Getting arrested would be worth punching her teeth into her toxic, hate-filled mouth,” I replied savagely. “You just DON'T talk about anyone that way, especially if you barely know them. And judging by the way she looked at Sherlock, she only hates him cuz he turned her down every time that she propositioned him.”

John looked at me in shock and opened his mouth to say something, but the phone in a public telephone box to the right began to ring. He stopped, and we both looked at one another, then at the phone for a few seconds. John looked down at his watch, shook his head at how late it was getting and we continued down the road. The phone stopped ringing.

Not long afterward, we're walking down what may well be Brixton High Road. Outside Chicken Cottage, the fast-food restaurant which we are standing by, I try to hail a passing taxi.

“Taxi! Taxi!”

The stupid taxi passed us by. The payphone on the wall began to ring. John and I turned and looked on as one of the serving staff walked over to it but as he reached for the phone, it stopped. We continue walking down the road and shortly afterward approached another public telephone box. The phone inside started to ring.

This had me slightly spooked. It felt like we were being watched, stalked even. I reached into the right pocket of my leather jacket to grip the metal pocket knife in it. Though perhaps it couldn't be called a “pocket knife” as the blade itself was about three inches long. As John pulled the door on the booth open and went inside, I scanned around us for threats, thinking to myself that though my knife was legal for me to carry back home, I should really look up the weapon laws for Britain.

“Hello?” I turned to see John speak into the phone.

I could hear another voice coming from the phone, but not the words, though it was clearly a male voice.

“Who’s this? Who’s speaking?” John frowned, then looked through the window of the phone box, and I followed his gaze to see a CCTV camera high up on the wall of a nearby building. “Yeah, I see it.”

The camera, which was pointing directly at the phone box, swiveled away. I narrowed my eyes. Okay, this was getting to be really shady. I watched as two more cameras did the same thing that the first one did.

'How are you doing this?' John asked the person on the other end of the phone.

Whipped my head around at the sound of an engine coming up on us and turned to see a black car pull up at the curb near the phone. A male driver got out and opened the rear door. I looked back at John as he put the phone down and looked thoughtful for a long moment, then turn to leave the phone box. He motions to the car with his head as he looked at me. I huffed and watched him get in, fingering my knife. I did not like this entire situation one bit The male driver motioned for me to get inside and I suppressed the urge to growl before getting in. I wasn't going to let my new friend go wherever the car was headed, even if we were being kidnapped by some sort of mafia or something.


	8. Mr. Mysterious-MI6-looking Man and his large sum of money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been a while. lost the motivation to write but I won't abandon this work.
> 
> I also may or may not have written a possible ending already, but it's going to take a while to get to that.

A few moments later we're sitting in the back seat of the car. An attractive young woman was sitting beside John, her eyes fixed on her BlackBerry while she typed on it. She was pretty much ignoring us.

'Hello,” John greeted her. She smiled brightly at him for a moment before returning her gaze to her phone.

“Hi.”

“What’s your name, then?”

“Er, Anthea.”

“Is that your real name?”

“No,” she smiled.

John nodded, then twisted to look out of the rear window briefly before turning back again.

'I’m John,” he offered.

“Yes. I know.”

It was amusing to watch his attempts at polite conversation so I just silently laughed and stayed quiet.

“Any point in asking where I’m going?” John asked.

“None at all, John,” she replied, turning to smile briefly at him before she turned back to her phone again.

“Okay,” he seemed a bit defeated and awkward so I patted his leg in sympathy, struggling to hide my smile.

Sometime later, the car pulled into an almost-empty warehouse. A man in a suit was standing in the center of the area, leaning nonchalantly on an umbrella while he watched the car stop and John and I get out. In front of the man was a straight-backed armless chair facing him. He gestured to it with the point of his umbrella as John limped towards him, leaning heavily on his cane. I followed slowly, scanning the area.

“Have a seat, John,” the man invited and I shifted my gaze to look at him.

He was tall, kind of thick around the middle, with neatly combed, short dark hair, round cheeks but not so round that they made him look chubby. Suit was gray, pinstriped, brown loafers on his feet, the umbrella was black. High-level job, I guessed, he was the one who gave orders. MI6 perhaps, or something to do with the government. I didn't know why he would basically kidnap us. Perhaps we had met with someone dangerous, or maybe someone on their “keep a close eye on this one” list. But the only person who we had met who was even remotely interesting enough for the government to keep an eye on was-wait.

Sherlock.

I hummed in thought and studied the man again.

Similar eyes, cheekbones, though his cheeks were almost too round to see how high they were, similar vocabulary and diction. Looked to be a genius.

I realized something, something very important, but decided it was probably best I keep it to myself.

All the while, John continued toward the man, his voice calm as he said, “You know, I’ve got a phone.”

He looked around the warehouse, but I kept my gaze trained on the man.

'I mean, very clever and all that, but, er, you could just phone me,” John continued. “On my phone.” He walked straight past the chair and stopped a few paces in front of the man. I walked over and casually leaned my shoulder against the top side of the back of the chair.

'When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place,” the man replied. His voice, which had had a pleasant smile in it so far, became a little more stern towards the end of what he said next, “The leg must be hurting you. Sit down.”

“I don’t wanna sit down,” John said.

The man looked at him curiously.

“You don’t seem very afraid,” he commented.

“You don’t seem very frightening,” we replied at the same time.

The man chuckled.

'Ah, yes. The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?”

“I'm no soldier, sir,” I drawled. “But I like to think I'm rather brave and smart all at the same time.”

He looked at me with a frown, then looked at John sternly.

“What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?”

“I don’t have one. I barely know him. I met him-”

“Yesterday, and we plan on being flatmates, actually,” I interrupted.

John looked away thoughtfully, then appeared surprised, as if he hadn’t realized until then how little time has passed.

“Mm, and since yesterday you’ve moved in with him and now you’re solving crimes together,” the man said. “Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

“What the actual fuck is with you and everyone else for assuming that he and Sherlock are gay?” I asked angrily. “Especially you, of all people.”

The man looked surprised at me.

“Who are you?” John asked him.

“An interested party.”

“Interested in Sherlock? Why? I’m guessing you’re not friends.”

“You’ve met him,” the man said. “How many ‘friends’ do you imagine he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having.”

“Yeah, fucking right,” I snapped. God, I was so done with people maligning Sherlock today. I really needed to punch someone.

“And what’s that?” John countered the man.

“An enemy,” the man replied.

“An enemy?”

“In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he’d probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic.”

John looked pointedly around the warehouse and I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, thank God you’re above all that,” John was sarcastic.

“Pot calling the kettle black,” I added.

The man frowned at us. Just then, both of our phones ping with a text message alert and we both pull them out, ignoring the man. I unlocked my phone to read the message.

**Baker Street. **

**Come at once **

**if convenient. **

**SH**

“I hope I’m not distracting you,” the man said conversationally.

“Not distracting me at all,” John said casually. He took his time looking up from the phone before he pocketed it. Meanwhile, I texted back.

**Kidnapped by a man in a suit. Government job?**

**Black umbrella. Looks like he's familiar to you.**

**YD**

“Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?” the man asked.

“I could be wrong, but I think that’s none of your business,” John told him. I snickered.

“It could be,” the man implied bad things with an ominous tone.

'It really couldn’t,” John shrugged him off. I liked John. He had balls.

The man took a notebook from his inside pocket, then opened it and consulted it as he spoke, “If you do move into, um ... two hundred and twenty-one B Baker Street, I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way.”

I perked up at that as he closed the notebook and put it away again.

“Why?” John asked.

“Because you’re not a wealthy man,” the man replied. “And you,” he turned to me, apparently having not forgotten me. “have funeral bills still left to pay.”

“Fuck you,” I spat, chest hurting all over again. “You've no right to bring that up, you tiny dicked bastard.” He had the grace to look slightly ashamed but mostly insulted.

“In exchange for what?” John eyed me warily, surprised by my foul language.

“Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel ... uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to. “

“Why?”

“I worry about him. Constantly.'

“That’s nice of you.”

'But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a 'difficult relationship.'”

Another text alert, and we both turn to our phones.

**Don't worry about him.**

**Inconvenient or not,**

**come anyway. **

**SH **

“No,” John shot down the man's offer.

“But I haven’t mentioned a figure.”

John put his phone away again.

“Don’t bother.”

“You’re very loyal, very quickly,” the man laughed quickly.

“No, I’m not. I’m just not interested,” John replied.

The man looked at him closely for a moment, then took out his notebook and opened it again. He gestured slightly to make it clear that he was reading a note from the book as

he said, “'Trust issues,' it says here.”

For the first time since this little encounter began, John looked a little unnerved.

“What’s that?” he asked the man.

The man was still looking down at his book, “Could it be that you’ve decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?”

“Who says I trust him?” John countered.

I snorted. I didn't know about anyone here, but I trusted Sherlock. I trusted that he was good at his job and would do everything he could to do finish a job.

“You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily."

“Are we done?” John asked impatiently.

The man raised his head and looked into John’s eyes.

“You tell me.”

John looked at him for a long moment, then turned his back on him and started to walk away. I stood where I was.

“I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that’s not going to happen,” the man called after John.

John stopped dead in his tracks. His shoulders tensed and dropped and he angrily shook his head a little, clearly furious as he turned back around to face the man.

“My wot?” he said rather savagely through bared teeth.

“Show me,” the man nodded towards John’s left hand as he spoke, and planted the tip of his umbrella on the ground to leans casually on it, much like a man who is used to having his orders obeyed. John deliberately shifted his feet under him as if digging in and raised his left hand, bending it at the elbow, and stood still.

The message was clear: if the man wanted to look at John's hand, he’d have to come to him. Apparently unperturbed by this belligerence, the man strolled forward, hooking the handle of the umbrella over his arm as he reached for John’s hand. John instantly pulled his hand back a little.

“_Don’t,”_ his voice was tense.

The man lowered his head and raised his eyebrows at John, almost as if to say, “Did I mention trust issues?” I rolled my eyes at the man. Anyone who had been basically followed around and kidnapped at night would have issues trusting a stranger.

John very reluctantly lowered his hand, holding it out flat with the palm down. The man took it in both of his own hands and looked at it closely.)

“Remarkable.” the man mused.

“What is?” John snatched his hand away/

“Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield..” the man walked a few paces away, then turned and walked back to John, still pretty much ignoring me like the majority of people I had met today had (and people thought Americans were the rude ones). “You’ve seen it already, haven’t you?”

“What’s wrong with my hand?”

“You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it’s post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you’re haunted by memories of your military service.

I saw John almost flinch as the man fired off these statements at him and his gaze was fixed ahead of him, a muscle in his cheek twitching repeatedly.

“Who the hell are you? How do you know that?” John sounded angry which was understandable.

“Fire her. She’s got it the wrong way around. You’re under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady.”

I looked over at John's hand to see that the man was right. I also noticed the black splotches on his palm. A pang went through me, but at the same time, I was glad to see that he was spared the same fate that befell me.

“You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson. You miss it.”

The man moved closer to John and I just barely heard him say in a whisper, “Welcome back.”


	9. Breathing is boring and so is telling the truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay so I think Y'all should know by now, I don't use the summary section for the summary. Why spoil the chapter? That's just my opinion though. You'll just have to get used to it. If you aren't already.
> 
> Anyway, I will admit, I'm getting a little bit impatient with the fact that the first episode of the show has to be so damned long, even in the transcript version. So if you can tell by the way I write the next few chapters that I am impatient to wrap up the first episode, then I am sorry lol. I just want to finally get past it so that we can move on th the main point of the whole story: The soulmate shit. I'll definitely be focusing more on that after this stupid episode is over. I mean it's not stupid, its actually quite fascinating but yea, I'm getting a little bit impatient. I hope you enjoy this.
> 
> As always, don't forget to comment to point out any errors and to tell me what you like/don't like, what you thought, etc.

“I can't believe you took the money,” John grumbled at me. “Do you have no morality?”

“I have plenty, Doctor Watson,” I retorted. “I never explicitly said I would tell him the truth so when he wonders why my updates make no sense it will be on him for not specifying.”

“You mean to say it'll be a sort of 'I didn't tell you because you didn't ask' sort of situation?”

“Exactly,” I replied, pleased. “We may not be as smart as either of Sherlock or that shady guy we just met, but neither are we stupid.”

John shook his head at me as we got out of the black car, and I watched as it drove away before turning back to face the spot we had been dropped off at.

221 B Baker Street.

We stepped up towards the door and John knocked.

  
  


I went ahead of John and upstairs in the living room of the flat to see Sherlock lying stretched out on the sofa with his head towards the window, resting on a cushion. His jacket was off, shirt sleeves unbuttoned and pushed up his arms, eyes closed as he pressed the palm of his right hand firmly onto the underside of his left arm just below the elbow. After a while, his eyes snapped open wide and he stared fixedly up towards the ceiling before releasing a noisy breath and relaxing. I walked over to the window to look outside for any more black cars, eyes narrowed. Growling when I saw none, I turned back to see John come through the door, then stop and stare as Sherlock repeatedly clenched and clench his left fist. I noticed that he, as well as John, also had black splotches on his hand, except the black extended to his fingers.

I felt angry, then. Everywhere I went, I would always be reminded that everyone was birth marked and I was not.

_Perhaps I should just go live in a fucking jungle, _I thought bitterly. _I wouldn't be reminded, then._

“What are you doing?” John asked Sherlock, bringing my attention back to the present.

“Nicotine patch. Helps me think,” the intelligent man replied.

He lifted his right hand to show that three round nicotine patches stuck to his arm, thus showing the reason why he was pressing his hand against his skin; it was to release the substances more quickly through his bloodstream.

“Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days,” he commented. “Bad news for brain work.”

“So nicotine is your stimulant, then?” I asked nonchalantly in an effort to let go of the sudden anger that had flooded through me. Sherlock simply looked over at me to raise an eyebrow in affirmation.

“It’s good news for breathing,” John said.

“Oh, breathing,” Sherlock was dismissive. “Breathing’s boring.”

“Is that three patches?” John frowned as he looked down at Sherlock's arm.

Sherlock pressed his hands together in a prayer position under his chin.

“It’s a three-patch problem,” he closed his eyes and I watched as John looked around the room for a moment, then down at Sherlock again.

“Well?” John asked, to which he got no answer.

“You asked us to come” I interjected. “I’m assuming it’s important.”

Sherlock still didn’t respond instantly, but after a couple of seconds his eyes snapped open and he didn't even turn to look at us.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” he said. “Can I borrow your phone?” The last part was directed at John.

“My phone?

“Don’t wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized. It’s on the website.”

“Mrs. Hudson’s got a phone.”

“Yeah, she’s downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn’t hear.”

“I was the other side of London,” John was getting mad and I wisely decided to keep my mouth shut for the time being. I pulled out a sharpie once again, taking my jacket off to draw on my forearm while they talked about the case. I will admit, I wasn't paying much attention (even though I probably should have) so it was only when I heard Sherlock raise his voice that I looked at the two men.

“On my desk, there’s a number,” Sherlock held John's phone out to him in an imperious manner, not even bothering to look at him. “I want you to send a text.”

I saw John give a sort of angry, disbelieving half-smile.

“You brought me here,” He said, voice tight. “To send a text.”

“Text, yes,” Sherlock was oblivious to John's ire. “The number on my desk. “

Sherlock continued to hold the phone out while John glowered at him, possibly wondering if he can get away with justifiable homicide. Eventually, he stomped across the room and snatched the phone from Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock refolds his hands under his chin and closes his eyes but instead of going to the table, John walks over to the window and looks out into the street below. Sherlock opens his eyes and tilts his head slightly towards him.

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock asked.

“Just met a friend of yours,” John replied.

“A friend?” Sherlock looked confused.

“An enemy,” I corrected John, and I saw that Sherlock immediately relaxed.

“Oh.,” he said calmly. “Which one?”

“Your arch-enemy, according to him,” John turned to Sherlock. “Do people have arch-enemies?” Sherlock looked towards John and narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes.”

“Did you take it?”

“No,” John seemed a bit insulted.

“I did,” I stood up and walked over to hand him half of the stack of cash that I had been given.

“Smart woman,” he said. I had a feeling that it was high praise, coming from him, and I couldn't help but feel pleased. I look at John, only to see him shaking his head at me.

“Who is he?” John demanded.

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now,” he said softly. “On my desk, the number.”

John gave Sherlock a look that he ignored but did as Sherlock asked. Until he saw the name.

“Jennifer Wilson,” John frowned. “That was... Hang on. Wasn’t that the dead woman?”

“Yes. That’s not important. Just enter the number.”

“Not important,” I snickered, though it was probably a tad morbid to do so.

_Wait. Tad? Tad?? Good lord, only two days in London and I'm already thinking and almost speaking like an Englishwoman._

I shook my head and once again decided to ignore both men. Exciting and intriguing as this all was, it wasn't really my area of expertise, despite my observation skills. I decided to draw an elaborate Celtic knot pattern that wound around my forearm. I only looked up when Sherlock brought a small pink suitcase into the living room to set it on one of the dining room table chairs. Looked like he found Jennifer Wilson's suitcase after all. John turned towards Sherlock and when he saw the case he staggered slightly in shock.

“That’s... that’s the pink lady’s case,” his jaw practically dropped to the floorboards. “That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock was studying the case. John continued to stare until Sherlock looked up at him and rolled his eyes.

“Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn’t kill her,” his words dripped sarcasm.

“I never said you did,” John said defensively.

“Why not? Given the text I just had you send and the fact that I have her case, it’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

“Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?”

“Now and then, yes,” Sherlock smirked.

“Rude,” I commented. He nodded slightly, perhaps agreeing with me. I went back to drawing. It now covered the lower half of my forearm by now and I was feeling pleased, for I had not made a single mistake yet, and Celtic knots can be notoriously tricky.

  
  


“Because you’re an idiot.”

That phrase had me looking up at Sherlock, who looked at John's startled face and made a placatory gesture with one hand.

“No, no, no, don’t look like that,” he told him. “Practically everyone is.” He refolded his hands and then extended his index fingers to point at the case.

“Now, look. Do you see what’s missing?”

“From the case? How could I?” John asked.

“Her phone. Where’s her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there’s no phone in the case. We know she had one–that’s her number there; you just texted it.”

“Maybe she left it at home,” I chimed in. Sherlock put his hands onto the arms of the chair and raised himself up to lower his feet to the floor, then sat down properly on the chair.

“She has a string of lovers and she’s careful about it,” he said, waving a hand to dismiss what I had said. “She never leaves her phone at home.”

“Why did I just send that text?” John looked at where he had set his phone down.

“Well,” Sherlock mused. “The question is: where is her phone now?”

“She could have lost it.”

“Yes, or?”

“You think the murderer has the phone?” I asked Sherlock.

“Maybe she left it when she left her case,” he replied, gazing directly at me. “Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone.”

“Sorry, what are we doing?” John interrupted. “Did I just text a murderer?! What good will that do?”

Almost as if on cue, his phone began to ring and he picked it up and looked at the screen for the Caller I.D.

I peered over and managed to see what the screen of his phone said.

  
  


**(withheld) **

**calling **

  
  


John and I looked across to Sherlock as the phone continued to ring.

“A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer...” Sherlock paused quite dramatically. “Would panic.”

He flipped the lid of the suitcase closed and stood up, walking across the room to pick up his jacket. As John continued to stare down at his phone, Sherlock puts on his jacket and walks towards the door. I simply shifted in my seat, feeling tired and a bit nauseous. I hadn't gotten much sleep since I got here and I suspected I was still jet-lagged. If they were going to leave, I was going to stay here and maybe take a nap.

“Have you talked to the police?” John finally spoke.

“Four people are dead,” Sherlock responded. “There isn’t time to talk to the police.”

“So why are you talking to us?” I asked.

“Mrs. Hudson took my skull,” he replied, and I followed his gaze to the mantelpiece where he was looking.

“So we're basically filling in for your skull?”

“Relax, you’re doing fine,” Sherlock put on his greatcoat. John didn't move.

“Well?” Sherlock prompted.

“Well, what?”

“Well, you could just sit there and watch telly.'

“What, you want me to come with you?”

“I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...” he trailed off.

John smiled briefly.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked him, quirking an eyebrow.

“Yeah, Sergeant Donovan.”

“What about her?” Sherlock looked away in exasperation and I pinched the bridge of my nose in remembered irritation.

“She said you get off on this. You enjoy it.”

“And I said 'dangerous,' and here you are,” Sherlock replied nonchalantly before turning and walking out of the door.

John sat there thoughtfully for a few seconds as I gave the doorway a puzzled look, then John, almost angrily, leaned onto his cane to push himself to his feet and headed for the door.

“Damn it!” he turned back to look at me. “Aren't you coming?”

“Uh, no,” I shook my head. “It's only been two days since I got here, with little amounts of sleep so I'm still jet-lagged. I'll stay here.”

“Alright, then,” e gave one last look around the room, then said goodbye and left.

I stared after him for a while before going back to drawing on my hand.


	10. It's like the cops make their own rules...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh god finally. This is the last chapter for the first episode and after that, I am _not_ doing another one like that. Even if you beg (actually I _might_ consider if and that's a pretty big maybe).
> 
> After this, It's on to the soulmate shit! WOOT!   
(only took us ten chapters but who the fuck cares, right?)
> 
> (goddammit, I'm sorry I made you go through ten chapters of that bullshit, they were probably terrible. I'm so sorry lol)

I'm startled awake by the loud sound of many pairs of footsteps coming up the stairs. I pulled my phone out of my zipped up jacket pocket and could barely make out the fuzzy symbols that my brain finally understands as 8:42 pm. I rub my eyes and sit up from where I had slouched in the chair I had been sitting on right as a bunch of cops burst into the room.

“Excuse me,” I said. “But what the fuck are you doing here without a warrant, Detective?” I glared at Lestrade and the glare only got blacker when I saw two of the people behind him. Donovan and Anderson.

“None of your business, freak,” Donovan sneered.

“I would definitely say it my fucking business, seeing as how I'm watching after a friend's flat and you just come bursting in without knocking or anything. I don't know about England, but in America, you can lose your badge for that. Right to due process and all.”

Donovan had the good sense to shut her mouth, glaring at me. I flipped her off and shrugged at Lestrade's reprimand.

“I'm not verbally assaulting her, Detective,” I snapped. “I'm simply telling her to fuck off. I'm jet-lagged as hell and you woke me up. I think I'm entitled to some grouchiness.”

  
  


It took John and Sherlock far too long to get back to the flat, in my opinion. When Sherlock opened the door, I was pretty sure I could already see the anger in his eyes as he saw Lestrade sitting casually in the armchair facing the door while Donovan, Anderson and a few other police officers were going through Sherlock’s possessions, and me with a clearly pissy look on my face.

“I tried to tell them off, Sherlock,” I said as he stormed over to Lestrade. “Not many actions you can take without getting arrested for assaulting an officer, otherwise I would have forcibly removed them.”

“What are you doing?” Sherlock growled.

“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade retorted. “I’m not stupid.”

'You can’t just break into my flat.”

“Yeah, without a warrant, I might add,” I growled.

“And you can’t withhold evidence,” Lestrade shot back. “And I didn’t break into your flat.”

“Well, what do you call this then?” Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade looked around at his officers before looking back to Sherlock innocently, saying, “It’s a drugs bust.”

“Seriously?!” John demanded. “This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!”

Sherlock turned and walked closer to John, biting his lip nervously.

_Oh, dear. _

“John,” Sherlock warned.

“I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational,” John went on.

“John, you probably want to shut up now,” I told him, feeling antsy myself. I hadn't known for sure if Sherlock did drugs but the three nicotine patches had made me wonder and then how Sherlock was acting only confirmed it.

“Yeah, but come on...” Jon trailed off, then his face practically dripped disbelief and disappointment. “No.”

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“You?”

“Shut up!” Sherlock snapped angrily and turned back to Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog.

“No, Anderson‘s my sniffer dog,” he nodded towards the kitchen.

I rolled my eyes so hard, the whole time the little fiasco went on. When Lestrade said that none of the officers in the flat were on the 'drugs squad' as Lestrade put it, I stood up from where I had been sitting.

“Wait a fucking minute,” I said loudly, angry. “You mean to tell me that none of you are on Narcotics, _and_ you're here without a warrant as well? What would your chief of police have to say about that? Does the London police make its own rules? Or is it just more fucked up than the legal system in America?”

“You're just an American visiting the capital,” Anderson said nastily. “What we do doesn't concern you.”

“My fucking ass,” I whirled on him, fury in my eyes. “I happen to have dual citizenship, effective three weeks ago, so yes, what you do _does _concern me. I'm a British citizen and I would very much like to know that the British police are doing their jobs _properly.”_

It was uncomfortably silent for a moment as I glared daggers at Anderson until Donovan came out from the kitchen, holding a small glass jar with some white round objects in it.

“Are these human eyes?”

“Put those back!” Sherlock growled.

“They were in the microwave!”

“It’s an experiment.”

“Keep looking, guys,” Lestrade told his team. He stood up and turned to Sherlock. “Or you could help us properly and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” Sherlock paced angrily.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child,” the D.I retorted. “Sherlock, this is our case. I’m letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

Sherlock stopped to glare at him.

“Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?”

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

“I am clean!” Sherlock yelled.

“Is your flat? All of it?”

“I don’t even smoke,” He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt and pulled it up to show a nicotine patch on his lower arm. Presumably, he removed the other two earlier.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade pulled up the right sleeves of his own jacket and shirt to show a similar patch on his arm. Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away and they both pulled their sleeves back down again.

“So let’s work together,” Lestrade continued. “We’ve found Rachel.”

At this point, I was still really tired so I sat back down in the chair and zoned out. The case was interesting, but the cops had pissed me off too many times in one day and I was not feeling good.

I sighed and turned to john to ask if he was hungry. He smiled and said yes before thanking me as I hurried off to grab some food.

  
  


I came back to the flat with some Italian food 30 minutes later to find that Sherlock had left.

“What do you mean he left?!” I exclaimed, dumping the bagged to-go boxes on the dining room table.

“He's with the killer,” John rushed to explain grabbing his jacket. “Come on, Yn, we've got to get to him!”

I swore and made sure I had my knife before following him out the door.

  
  


John and I were in the back of a taxi as John talked on the phone, notebook in his lap, trying to get ahold of the police, while I repeated what he told me to the cabbie.

“No, Detective Inspector Lestrade,” John spoke into the phone. “I need to speak to him. It’s important. It’s an emergency!”

“Er, left here, please,” I told the driver upon John's request. “Left here.”

  
  


John and I arrived at Roland-Kerr College. As the taxi pulled away, John tucked the notebook into his jacket and looked at the two identical buildings in front of him. The map wasn't clear enough to indicate exactly where the phone was and after a moment, he made his choice and headed towards the buildings, waving at me to follow.

  
  


We ran through the corridors.

“Sherlock?” we yelled for him, running from door to door, trying them and peering in through windows.

“Sherlock!”

  
  


Outside the college, Sherlock was sitting on the back steps of an ambulance and I stood nearby with a white bandage on my left hand from where I had tripped while running, which had caused a rather nasty gash to open up. A paramedic put an orange blanket around Sherlock's shoulders as Lestrade walked over. Sherlock gestured to the blanket.

'Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me.”

“Yeah, it’s for shock.”

“I’m not in shock.”

'Yeah, but some of the guys wanna take photographs,” Lestrade grinned and Sherlock rolled his eyes while I gave a small laugh.

“So, the shooter. No sign?” Sherlock asked.

“Cleared off before we got ’ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but,” Lestrade shrugged. “Got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock gave him a pointed look and I had a feeling I knew where this was going. I inched closer, ready to elbow him before he condemned our friend.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” Sherlock said. Lestrade decided it was _his _turn to roll his eyes, I guess.

'Okay, gimme,” he decided to humor Sherlock who stood up.

“The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a handgun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon–that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatized to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service...”

I elbowed him as he turned his head to look around the area and watched as his gaze landed on John, who was standing some distance away behind the police tape.)

“And nerves of steel...” he trailed off and I was glad I didn't have to elbow him in the ribs again. My actual elbow hurt from doing it, like the man's ribs were metal or something.

Lestrade turned to follow Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock turned back to him, presumably before he can start to ask questions.

“Actually, do you know what? Ignore me,” he told him.

“Sorry?”

“Ignore all of that. It’s just the, er, the shock talking,” He started to walk towards John.

“Nice save,” I said loud enough for just him to hear. He shot me a sharp look, to which I just shrugged at.

“Where’re you going?” Lestrade called.

“I just need to talk about the-the rent.”

“Smooth, Sherlock,” I muttered, earning yet another sharp glance.

“But I’ve still got questions for you,” Lestrade told him.

“Oh, what now? I’m in shock! Look, I’ve got a blanket!” Sherlock turned back to Lestrade in irritation and brandished the sides of the blanket at him as if to prove it. I struggled to hold my laughter in.

“Sherlock!”

“And I just caught you a serial killer... more or less.”

Lestrade looked at him thoughtfully for a moment.

“Okay,” he allowed. “We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

As we walked away, Sherlock took the blanket from around his shoulders, bundling it up as we approached John, who was standing at the side of a police car. Sherlock tossed the blanket through the open window of the car and ducked under the police tape after me.

“Um, Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything, the two pills,” John said casually. “Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it? Dreadful.”

Sherlock looked at him for a moment before saying quietly, “Good shot.”

John tried (and failed) to look innocent.

“Yes. Yes, must have been, through that window.”

“Well, you’d know.”

John gazed up at him, still unsuccessfully trying not to let his expression give him away. I chuckled.

“Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don’t suppose you’d serve time for this, but let’s avoid the court case,” Sherlock commented and John cleared his throat and looked around nervously.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, of course I’m all right.”

“Well, you have just killed a man,” I said softly.

“Yes, I...” John trailed off and I saw Sherlock give him a close look. “That’s true, innit?”

He smiled.

“But he wasn’t a very nice man,” he finally said.

Sherlock and I nodded in agreement.

“No. No, he wasn’t really, was he?” Sherlock mused.

“And frankly a bloody awful cabbie.”

Sherlock chuckled, then turned and started to lead us away.

“That’s true,” he said. “He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took us to get here!”

John and I giggled while Sherlock simply smiled.

“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!”

“You’re the one who shot him,” I giggled again. “Don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down!” he hissed as we walked past Donovan. John cleared his throat once we were past the nasty cop.

“You were gonna take that damned pill, weren’t you?” John said to Sherlock. Sherlock stopped and turned back to him.

“Course I wasn’t. Biding my time. Knew you’d turn up.”

“You're a damned liar, Sherlock,” I accused.

“No you didn’t,” John retorted. “It’s how you get your kicks, isn’t it? You risk your life to prove you’re clever.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you’re an idiot,” John and I chorused, then looked at one another. We hadn't done that for a few hours.

Sherlock smiled, but after a moment he forced the smile down.

“Dinner?” he suggested.

'Starving,” John agreed.

“Well lucky for you two, the Italian I brought back should still be warm,” I said pointedly, and both men, (actually it was just John) looked sheepish.

As I was speaking, a few yards ahead of us, a car pulled up and the man who abducted John and I earlier got out. Not-Anthea is with him. John and I both looked at one another and then stared.

“Sherlock,” John said. “That’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

Sherlock looked at the man.

“I know exactly who that is.”

He walked closer to the man and stopped, looking at him angrily. The man spoke pleasantly to Sherlock.

“So, another case cracked. How very public-spirited... though that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock growled.

“As ever, I’m concerned about you,” the man deflected his question.

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your ‘concern.’”

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

“Oddly enough, no!”

“We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it always upset Mummy.”

_Ah, yup. Suspicion confirmed._

John frowned as if unsure of what he just heard.

_No, John, you heard him right._

“I upset her? Me?” Sherlock seemed offended. “It wasn’t me that upset her, Mycroft.” The man, Mycroft, glowered at him.

_Sherlock and Mycroft? Interesting names for children. Which is what they are acting like._

'No, no, wait. Mummy? Who’s Mummy?” John was clearly confused.

“Mother–our mother,” Sherlock replied. “This is my brother, Mycroft.”

John stared at the man in amazement.

“Putting on weight again?” Sherlock taunted Mycroft.

“Losing it, in fact,” he responded a bit icily.

“He’s your brother?!” John was having a hard time believing, I seemed.

“Of course he’s my brother.”

“So he’s not ...

“Not what?

The brothers looked at John as he shrugged in embarrassment.

“I dunno, criminal mastermind?”

He grimaced at having even suggested it. Sherlock looked at Mycroft disparagingly.

“Close enough,” he said.

“For goodness’ sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government,” Mycroft snapped.”

“He _is_ the British government when he’s not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis.”

Mycroft sighed.

“Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic.”

Sherlock walked away and I followed. I nudged him and he looked down at me with a raised eyebrow that made my stomach flip.

_Stop it._

“Christmas dinners?” I asked innocently, trying (and failing) to imagine what family events must look like at his parent's house. He rolled his eyes at me and I chuckled as John caught up to walk side by side with us.

“So: dim sum,” John suggested.

“Mmm! I can always predict the fortune cookies,” Sherlock said.

“Guys, no,” I snapped. “We already have food and I'm not letting it go to waste.”

“No, you can’t,” John replied to Sherlock, ignoring me. I growled.

“Almost can. You did get shot, though,” Sherlock told him.

“Sorry?”

“In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound.”

“Oh, yeah. Shoulder.”

“Shoulder! I thought so.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“The left one.”

“Lucky guess.”

“I never guess.”

“Yes, you do,” John laughed and I did as well.

I looked across to Sherlock, who is smiling.

“What are you so happy about?” I asked him.

“Moriarty.”

“What’s Moriarty?”

“I’ve absolutely no idea,” he said cheerfully.

  
  


  
  


  
  


“But... Dim sum...”

“No, damn you! I bought us Italian food with almost half of my money! You will eat it or I'll shove it up your bloody ass!”

“Hey, she said 'bloody.' Talking like a real Brit, now, Yn.”

“Shut up, John.”


	11. Two in the morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hiya. Hope you like it. I'm not gonna lie, it's sort of a filler chapter but I think it's kind of important to the story depsite that.
> 
> Also, i made a song for it.
> 
> This is [Their Song.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4Cd5UENlWwg)

* * *

It was the sound of a violin that woke me from my nightmare, and I sat bolt upright in bed to rest my elbows on my knees, head between my hands.

“_It's all your fault,” the faceless crowd chanted. “You don't have a mark, so they died.”_

I took a shuddering breath and ran my hands through my tangled hair, cold with sweat.

“_You're an abomination,” said my father with distaste. “We never should have had you.”_

“_We would be alive if it wasn't for you,” my mother sneered, breaking my heart. “Your lack of a birthmark is what made that driver crash into us.”_

I sobbed into my hands. I wanted to scream. To break something and smash it against the wall because the pain was too great. I missed them so much.

It hadn't been easy for my parents to have a child lacking a birthmark. They'd gotten strange looks, people treated them differently once they found out about me. You could only withhold information for so long until the subject of birthmarks came up. And then there would be silence. Awkward silence and sideways glances, like something was horribly wrong with us, with me. Then there would be excuses as to why they couldn't come visit or come to my birthday party and then they would just straight up shun us.

But it was mostly me that they shunned. In their eyes, I was an abomination, an unfortunate mishap that my normal parents had to live with. So I'd tried my best to be a good girl, to be the best child ever to make up for my inadequacy. My parents and my grandma loved me with all of their hearts. They did their best to make me feel good despite what the kids at school said to me every day and they tried to make me happy. They succeeded, a lot. But there was a lot that they didn't know about that I kept from them because I didn't want them to hurt over me any more than they already did.

I didn't tell them about the physical bullying, the threats, the nasty notes in my locker or the rumors passed that were passed around and got worse with every retelling, like a game of telephone gone wrong on steroids. I didn't tell them about how many times I felt like dying. I didn't tell them about the times that I took a razor from my mom's bathroom to stare at the blades, wondering if it was worth it to try, if it was worth it to put my parents through the pain of knowing what I had tried to do if I didn't succeed.

I never uttered a word to my parents, but my grandma? She always knew. She somehow knew what I was going through, what I was thinking and what was going on. It was like she could see right through me and she understood. She would just take one look at me and open her arms in an invitation for a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

I don't know what I would have done without my grandma. I probably wouldn't have lived.

* * *

I tried to sleep again, but I was too wound up, and the sound of the violin playing upstairs was a strange sort of comfort that kept me awake. I got up from my bed and walked over to my closet, sliding open the brand new door that I had bought and installed myself. I grabbed my wrist braces and ignored the cold floor beneath my feet as I walked into what passed as a living room for my apartment. Sitting down on the smooth, black wooden bench, I laced the braces up as I stared at the ivory and ebony pieces in front of me.

I listened quietly.

The violin paused as if waiting, and I raised my fingers to the keys. The coolness of the ivory was like a balm for my soul and I bowed my head as the tune that I'd never written down floated through my head, making my fingers dance over the smooth pieces.

* * *

He paused in his playing and glanced at the clock. It was nearly two in the morning and he couldn't sleep. It wasn't that he had a case (he had just solved one, actually) he just couldn't sleep, due to his brain still whirring.

He put the violin back under his chin and raised his hand, the bow between his fingers. But the sound of a piano drifting through the building made him pause once more.

The tune was sad, beautiful and the notes were somehow light. It wasn't any piece he had heard before, not Mozart or Bach, but one that was more modern. It sounded like a composed piece, one that only the person who was playing it had ever heard. Normally, he didn't much care for emotions, but the piece held such loneliness, such heartbreaking pain in it, that he felt something in his chest give a stir. For some reason, he couldn't explain (or didn't want to admit) he felt a strange sort of nostalgia steal over him, and he caught himself wishing that he was a small kid again.

The piano paused, and he gave himself a shake. Something in him compelled his hand to move the bow over the strings, to press his fingers down upon the familiar strings to create notes to a melody he knew by heart.

* * *

The violin picked up again but seemed to invite me, beckon me even, to play along. So I did. And I lost myself in the music.


	12. Author's Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm working on the next chapter I swear I am.

Just popping in here to say that I might be slow i updating because I am packing things up and getting ready to move while also trying to nail down a place to live. I'm moving for college and it's proving to be more and more stressful, especially since trying to find a place that allows pets and has a rent at $800 or below is kind of hard. add that to the fact that there are some ridiculous rules for renting in some places and I've never rented before or have a credit history... yea. I'm a ball of stress right now.


	13. Update on Where I am

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just thought I would pop in to let you guys know that I’m still working on the story.

I My SO and I found a place, we’re slowly getting settled in, and we’re getting into our college routine. I only have one class that I have to be at the actual college for, and the others are online. However, I have quite a bit of make up work to do because I didn’t have internet until two days ago, and there’s three online classes that I’m taking. 

Not to mention it’s Inktober this month, and I am determined to get something drawn for every prompt, every day. And I’m struggling with depression (mostly feeling inadequate/stressed/unappreciated/sad/wanting to die). So between all of that, I am working on the story. I’ll try to get the next chapter up by Halloween (and maybe you’ll get a bonus Halloween chapter as well, idk). 

I love you guys. Thank you for being patient and understanding, it truly means the world to me. I also want to say thanks to everyone who has subscribed, bookmarked, commented and given this story Kudos.


	14. In which John is teased about his age and gets an inspiration for a new haircut (hint: its the one he sports in the latest season of Sherlock)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest I've been working on this for at least two months, so I figured I would post part of it for all of you lovelies who've been patient with me. I told you I wouldn't abandon it. :)
> 
> Also: 75 KUDOS???? good god, thank you to everyone who has given kudos, commented, bookmarked and subscribed to this story. It means a lot to me.
> 
> As for an update on my personal life, I'm getting therapy soon to help me with my depression, working on getting a job, and college has settled pretty much (except for my one bitch of an instructor, seriously, fuck her).
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy this.

I was feeling stressed, more stressed than usual, which was saying quite a bit, actually. One would think that being able to paint, both digitally and with actual paint, for a living and be well paid for it would be easy and perfect, right? Nope. Not always. I mean, it's great being able to do what I love for a living and to be able to live well because of it, but the stress factor can be insane. Everyone always has this idea of what the perfect design should look like, and if I happen to make a slight mistake, it's like their blood pressure goes through the roof with how offended they can be. Especially during the holidays, like Halloween, Christmas, St. Patrick's day, etc.

The business side doesn't always mesh with the artistic side and it can be quite a headache. Arguments ensue, the worst ones end up with me threatening to quit the job, and if they want my skills badly enough they'll at least try to compromise. And if they are too stubborn, then I just pack my things and leave. No sweat off my back. With how many well paying jobs I've taken in the past five years, I could live comfortably for six months to a year and not have to offer my skills again.

The only downside to that is that I sometimes get to feeling crazy and bored without a project to work on. So when I met John at a coffee shop and mentioned that since St. Bart's had paid me the rest of the money they owed me for my work and that I needed something to do, he suggested I could paint something for each of my friends.

I brightened up and looked him over, taking in the shape of his jaw, the shape of his eyes and the colors he was wearing, tilting my head this way and that. John raised an eyebrow and asked me what the bloody hell was I doing.

"Deciding on how to draw old blonde hair," I teased.

"I'm not that old," John scowled. "I'm not even forty yet."

"By only a few years, _mon ami,"_ I laughed, running a few fingers through the tips of his hair to admire the colors. "Your hair is more like silvery-white and pale blonde, like a brighter form of salt and pepper. It's very striking," I added. "It would be even more striking if you trimmed the sides to about a quarter of an inch and let the top grow to about two or three inches and combed it back." I gave him an appreciative look as I imagined it.

"Women would find you to be very handsome, _mon ami,"_ I told him. I also wanted to make a comment about him being an older man but decided to spare him. I took a sip of my pumpkin spice chai latte and stood up to give him a hug when he stood up as well.

"Where are you going?" he asked me, sitting back down on his side of the booth we'd been sitting at to look at me as he took a sip of his tea.

"You've inspired me, John," I told him, slipping my worn black leather jacket and matching motorcycle gloves on. "I'm going home to do something artsy." I paused and glared, pointing at him. "Do not come in unless I say you can. It's important. And if His Royal Highness decides that it's not as important as a case or his boredom or whatever, you can tell him he won't be able to find his violin, gun or nicotine patches for an indefinite amount of time."

"I'll be sure to pass the message on to him," John chuckled. "I'll see you later, then?"

_"Oui,"_ I flashed one last smile at him before heading out to my bike to head home.


	15. Fuck you, Sherlock, for noticing (of course) how your suddenly intense sexiness makes me feel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> YEET
> 
> Yeet is a fun word and I will never stop saying it
> 
> YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEET

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm super sorry that it took me almost three months to update again but you know how crazy life is. I mean, it's settled, _for now_ at least but it might get hectic again when my helper finally gets around to responding to my texts (it's been three days, Cody, fucking answer me) and helps me get a job here. I moved back to my old town and it's nice being able to see family again, but my SO and I have been having issues and my next therapy appointment isn't for another month. *rolls eyes*
> 
> And oh my goodness, this thing has nearly 100 Kudos, 15 bookmarks, and 1656 hits!!! 3 more Kudos and it'll have a 100 and I think that's awesome. I love you all for your support and for sticking with me and my random updates (I've never followed an update schedule like other authors do, lol it's too hard for me), and taking the time to comment.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy it! And as always, don't forget to comment on what you like, if there are any typos and feel free to suggest things for the story. I've got a few ideas but maybe you guys do too. Your comments make my day. :)

**"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES I WILL KICK YOUR BLOODY FUCKING ASS IF YOU REMOVE THAT CLOTH TO LOOK AT THAT CANVAS."**

"I just want to see," he glared at me as I stepped out of the bathroom with still-wet hair, ready to throw my comb at him.

"Seeing doesn't involve touching," I snapped, forcibly removing him from my painting area. "Now what the hell do you want?"

"John told me to come down here to fetch you," he replied. "He seems to think you need to 'come up for air and join the rest of us.'" Sherlock rolled his eyes and I shook my head.

"It's not like I'm swimming or drowning myself in alcohol or something," I muttered. "I was just taking a shower."

"That's what I said," he agreed. "Either way, he seems insistent on having you there as soon as possible. I personally don't know what all the excitement is about. Thanksgiving and Christmas are really just an excuse to stuff yourself the way they stuff turkeys and get stuff you really don't need."

"True," I laughed. "But it's also supposed to be a holiday where you and your family and friends can gather around to talk and catch up on their well-being. It's also supposed to be a time where you can express your thankfulness that you even have friends and family."

He regarded me with his ever-color-changing eyes and tilted his head.

"You miss them," was all he said.

I nodded, giving him a somewhat helpless look. "They were my world, mon ami," I said. "They made me feel happy and accepted me for who I am when the majority of people would not." I cleared my throat to ease the rock that seemed to be stuck there and gave him a warm smile. "But I am happy to have found a few others who do the same when I only expected to be shunned after the inevitable question was asked and then answered."

Sherlock seemed surprised (and maybe a little bit pleased) to have me call him my friend, but he quickly resumed his usual expression of annoyed indifference.

"Are you going to be ready soon?" his tone was annoyed but I knew it wasn't directed at me so I shrugged a shoulder at him and walked into the bathroom again.

"Let me wring my hair out and put on a dry shirt," I told him, shutting the bathroom door. "I'll be good to go in five minutes."

"Just hurry up," he grouched in his usual manner.

"Learn to be patient, Sherlock."

He grumbled but I ignored him and proceeded to change out of my wet shirt, drying my hair with the towel. I combed it out, put it into a french braid and dug some eyeliner and mascara out of the small makeup bag on the counter. I quickly lined my eyelids with a burgundy wine eyeliner that made my eyes pop and applied a light layer of mascara. Satisfied, I put on my bra and walked out of the bathroom, ignoring Sherlock as I walked into my room to grab a different shirt. He didn't seem to care about nudity, so I figured he wouldn't care about me being half-naked. I grabbed a dark purple shirt that had billowy 3/4 sleeves, put it on, grabbed my phone and walked out again. I came to stand in front of Sherlock and raised an eyebrow at his blank-faced expression.

"Are you alright, _mon ami?"_ I asked.

"I'm fine," his tone didn't betray whatever he might be thinking or feeling so I shrugged and pushed him out of my apartment.

"Let's go, then."

Upstairs, everyone was already chatting when Sherlock and I entered, and quite a few glanced our way to give us looks. I scowled internally because I already knew they were probably assuming shit, but plastered a smile onto my face. Molly came up to me, while Sherlock wandered over to the fireplace to lean against the mantle, watching the whole room with disinterest.

“You look lovely,” she told me.

“You too,” I smiled at her, glancing around the room before my gaze landed on someone and I smirked, turning back to her. “I think Lestrade over there rather fancies the way you've gotten all dolled up.”

“What?” she frowned, glanced over to where Lestrade was standing, then blushed to see him staring and turned back to me. “I don't know if I fancy him like that. And what do you mean by 'dolled up?'”

“American phrase for getting all fancy or dressed up more than usual,” I explained.

“Oh,” she said, then looked over at the Detective Inspector uncertainly.

“Oh, go, Molly,” I gave her a nudge. “Even if neither of you ends up wanting a relationship at least you can get laid.”

“Yn!”

I cackled and gave her a not-so-gentle shove.

“Go, woman,” I demanded. “Your lady bits will thank you.” She gave me a slight glare but walked over to Lestrade anyways and I watched as they chatted, pleased with myself.

“You look like a cat who just ate the family goldfish,” an unexpectedly deep voice near my ear made me jump, and I turned to see Sherlock.

“I didn't know you to be one to use metaphors,” I told him.

“I don't usually,” he replied but didn't explain.

“Figured,” I muttered. “So whatcha doin? And no, don't go all literal on me, you cheeky asshole.”

“Fine,” he gave a long-suffering sigh. “I couldn't bear the ignorant, empty chatter of the women over there.” He jerked his chin towards molly and John's most recent girlfriend, who I honestly didn't care to remember the name of.

“Dammit, she's supposed to be chatting up Lestrade,” I growled in Molly's direction. “Woman needs to get laid. And it's practically your fault she hasn't you know,” I gave him an accusing look. “Not every girl wants to go on a romantic trip every time she meets a guy. Sometimes, it's purely about physical satisfaction.”

“Pfft,” he snorted. “Sex is a distraction.” I watched him scan the room, then look back at me.

“Exactly,” I countered. “A distraction from whatever is stressing you or going wrong in life. Yeah, the aftermath is sometimes messy, but it can't always be helped.” I shrugged, then scowled. “But do the books ever mention that? No, of course not, cuz it would 'ruin the narrative or mood' or whatever. Yeah, sure. I personally think it adds to it if the characters take care of one another after the deed is done.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about, woman?”

“Books, Sherlock! Romance books! They hardly ever add the reality of the aftermath of sex in them, even if they are modern with no fantasy elements whatsoever and it just kind of irritates me.”

“Why would that bother you?”

“Because! I read those books a lot as a young teen and was pretty disappointed the first time I had sex. Not only was it not as good but, boy,” I laughed and shook my head, remembering it. “It happened so quick I wasn't sure anything happened at all.”

I looked over at him and saw him frown.

“That sounds like a bad first time to have sex,” Sherlock said.

“I learned my lesson,” I shrugged and looked back at the people gathered in the room, still talking.

“And the lesson was what, exactly?”

“Don't have sex with boys,” I said. “So I waited until I was full-grown to try again. Much better, that time.” I grinned and looked at him, only to be surprised at the glint in his eyes. I didn't know what exactly it was, but it made my stomach give a little flip and I inhaled sharply and hoped he hadn't noticed. But judging by the unexpected slow smile he gave me, he had. My stomach flipped again.

_Fuck, why does he have to go and be all tall, dark and sexy all of a sudden?_

I cleared my throat and gestured to the people in the room.

“We should do presents before it gets any later,” I said, changing the subject. “I don't fancy standing here listening to idle, inconsequential chatter all night.”

I moved away to go tell John what I had said to Sherlock before he said anything.

  
  


Ten minutes later, we are all exchanging gifts and when it was my turn to give out gifts I felt a little startled.

“Oh, hold on,” I said. “I forgot them downstairs. I'll be right back.”

I darted downstairs to grab them, and came back about five minutes later, struggling a little bit with trying to hold the three 15x20” and two 8x10” canvases that I had wrapped with different Christmas papers. John took the smaller ones from my hands and I gave him a grateful smile.

“Thank you, John,” I smiled at him. He simply nodded and gave me a smile back. I then turned my attention to the rest of the people in the room and got down to business.

“Molly, stand on the left side of the mantel, Lestrade, you're on the right. Mrs. Hudson if you'd stand by or sit on the couch that'd be lovely, John, sit in your chair, and that goes for you as well, Sherlock.”

He grouched but I set the wrapped up canvasses down and forced him to his seat (not an easy task considering how fucking tall he is), glaring until he rolled his eyes with a sigh and sat down in his chair, arms resting on the sides like a king upon his throne. I then stood at the front of the room and clapped my hands to get everyone's attention.

“Alright, ladies and gents, and Sherlock-” the man in question glared-” now that I've got your attention, its time I give you your gifts.” I handed Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson each one of the smaller canvasses, then gave the big 15x20” ones to john and Sherlock.

“On the count of three, y'all can open your gifts, and I really hope y'all enjoy them as I worked on them quite a bit. One, Two, Three!”

The sound of tearing wrapping paper and a few gasps and small noises of awe and delight made me smile. Each one of them had gotten a portrait of either themselves or something I knew they liked in acrylic paint.

Molly got a painting of her cat, Toby. Lestrade was given a head-shot portrait of himself and so was Mrs. Hudson. John received a painting in which he was shown to be interacting with a patient (made up one of course), and the kindness on his face was evident. And Sherlock?

Sherlock's gift was a painting of him looking out from the canvas, his eyes bright and alive, expression serious and captivating. I stood and simply smiled warmly as John, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson thanked me and complimented my skills. Sherlock, however, was silent, his eyes on the painting.

“Sherlock?” I questioned.

“Yes?” He looked up, no indication upon his face of whether or not he liked it.

“What do you think of it?”

Silence echoed. It was awkward and I began to feel anxious, playing with my nails as I waited for his response.

“You have extraordinary talent,” he said at last. “And this was well done.”

“Thank you, I really hope it pleases your fancy,” I replied, beaming.

“I'll hang it up somewhere, in the living room, I think.”

“I've got frames and such for everyone just in case. But I'll give them to you when y'all start heading to bed,” I told them. “But I'm so glad you all enjoyed them. I've never painted so many in such a short time.” I laughed.

“But you managed it, and they're beautiful dearie,” Mrs. Hudson said to me kindly. I could only smile in response.

Christmas was good this year.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Would you guys be interested in a part three to this, except in Sherlock's POV? I'm tempted but idk if I want to do it for sure, so if you guys want it, I'll write it.


	16. Sex, books, boys, and no one cares enough to remember John's girlfriend's name because they all know she won't last long

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> okay so i wasn't _orginally_ planning on this being a main part of the story but _you_ motherfuckers had to go and give me ideas for how the story should go, so here you are. I hope you like it, damn it. 
> 
> xD
> 
> All joking aside, I think you'll like this. well, I hope you do anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And since this is now, part of the main story, I'll be renaming the last three chapters. They will no longer say "BONUS CHAPTER: PART #"
> 
> they will have actual names. lol
> 
> luv ya.
> 
> ~Grace

**"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES I WILL KICK YOUR BLOODY FUCKING ASS IF YOU REMOVE THAT CLOTH TO LOOK AT THAT CANVAS."**

"I just want to see," Sherlock tossed a glare at the woman that stepped out of the bathroom with still-wet hair, ready to throw her comb at him.

"Seeing doesn't involve touching," she snapped, forcibly removing him from her painting area. "Now what the hell do you want?"

"John told me to come down here to fetch you," he replied, rolling his eyes. "He seems to think you need to 'come up for air and join the rest of us.'" Why John insisted on such stupidity was beyond him, but the detective simply did not feel like enduring the very pointed glances or smart remarks from his stubborn flatmate for the length of the day.

"It's not like I'm swimming or drowning myself in alcohol or something," she muttered. "I was just taking a shower."

"That's what I said," he agreed. "Either way, he seems insistent on having you there as soon as possible. I personally don't know what all the excitement is about. Thanksgiving and Christmas are really just an excuse to stuff yourself the way they stuff turkeys and get stuff you really don't need."

To be truthful, he'd never understood any of the major holidays and why everyone got so excited about spending money on useless things that no one really needed. To him, it was just an excuse to waste money and everyone else's time.

"True," she laughed, and he found himself oddly sort of pleased with the way it sounded. Light and joyful. "But it's also supposed to be a holiday where you and your family and friends can gather around to talk and catch up on their well-being. It's also supposed to be a time where you can express your thankfulness that you even have friends and family."

He studied her and tilted his head, noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes, the shoulders that hunched slightly with sadness, and the pained expression that creased the corners of her eyes when she thought no one was looking.

"You miss them," was all he said.

She nodded and gave him a somewhat helpless look.

"They were my world, mon ami," she said simply. "They made me feel happy and accepted me for who I am when the majority of people would not."

He understood that bit, the desire to be accepted for who you were, but he'd never admit that desire to anyone aloud. It would cause questions and pity, neither of which he wanted.

She cleared my throat in an obvious attempt to ease her emotional anguish and gave him a warm smile as she said, "But I am happy to have found a few others who do the same when I only expected to be shunned after the inevitable question was asked and then answered."

Sherlock was slightly surprised (and maybe a little bit pleased) when she seemed to mean it by calling him her friend, but he quickly resumed his usual expression of annoyed indifference.

"Are you going to be ready soon?" he grouched, though the grouchiness was not meant, and he knew she was smart enough to know that. She simply shrugged a shoulder at him and walked into the bathroom again.

"Let me wring my hair out and put on a dry shirt," she called over her shoulder, shutting the bathroom door. "I'll be good to go in five minutes."

"Just hurry up," he grouched in his usual manner.

"Learn to be patient, Sherlock."

He grumbled a little and rolled his eyes. Patience was a virtue, and depending on who you asked, he either had very little or none of those. Not that he cared, of course. He was thinking about his latest experiment-involving human skin and the effects of various acids upon it when she came out of the bathroom wearing her jeans, makeup, and just her bra. He stared for a split second (long enough to notice the bra was purple with black lace and that her chest certainly wasn't flat by any means, not that he cared about her breasts, nope) but quickly looked away. Train of thought effectively derailed, he tried desperately to remember what experiment he was thinking about before she walked out like that. Normally, he wouldn't have given half of a care if a woman did that, but something about her tugged at him.

She was feisty, fiery, far more intelligent than she seemed (which he was sure was intentional and another thing she'd been singled out for as a child, remarkably similar to him), didn't give a single fuck what anyone else thought of her, and apparently didn't care if he saw her nearly half-naked.

She came out of her room dressed in a dark purple shirt that had billowy 3/4 sleeves and came to stand in front of him with a raised eyebrow at his blank-faced expression.

"Are you alright, _mon ami?"_ she asked.

"I'm fine," he said, not betraying even a hint of his thought. She shrugged and pushed him out of her apartment.

"Let's go, then."

Upstairs, everyone was already chatting when they entered and quite a few glanced their way to give them looks that clearly told Sherlock that they were assuming things about why they entered together. He made his way over to the fireplace to lean against the mantle, watching the whole room with a mask of disinterest plastered on his face. He watched as Molly walked up to Yn, noticing the fake smile she plastered onto her face, and the slight anger in her eyes. No doubt that Yn knew the others had immediately assumed incorrect things about their entrance and what it meant.

Sherlock gazed around the room, saw Mrs. Hudson doing her best to talk to John's girlfriend, the one no one could remember the name of (Sherlock didn't care about her enough to remember her name, he knew she would probably dump john either tonight or in a few days, tops. John and Lestrade were talking about... something, he couldn't hear them very well and didn't care enough to try and eavesdrop.

So he found his gaze eventually going back to her.

“Yn!” Molly seemed shocked at something the other woman had said, and Yn laughed, shoving Molly in a certain direction, earning a slight glare from Molly before she walked over to Lestrade. They chatted for a little bit, then she went over and seemingly relieved Mrs. Hudson from talking to John's girlfriend, and the older woman nodded and walked over to talk to John.

After five minutes of listening to Molly and John's girlfriend talk about dresses and makeup, he decided to go and talk to Yn, walking behind her quietly to stand by her right side.

“You look like a cat who just ate the family goldfish,” he said to her, and she jumped and turned to him.

“I didn't know you to be one to use metaphors,” she told him.

“I don't usually,” he replied.

“Figured,” she muttered. “So whatcha doin? And no, don't go all literal on me, you cheeky asshole.”

Damn. He had just been about to say he was clearly standing beside her and talking to her.

“Fine,” he gave a long-suffering sigh. “I couldn't bear the ignorant, empty chatter of the woman over there.” He jerked his chin towards molly and John's most recent girlfriend, who I honestly didn't care to remember the name of.

“Dammit, she's supposed to be chatting up Lestrade,” Yn growled in Molly's direction. “Woman needs to get laid. And it's practically your fault she hasn't you know,” she gave him an accusing look. “Not every girl wants to go on a romantic trip every time she meets a guy. Sometimes, it's purely about physical satisfaction.”

“Pfft,” he snorted. “Sex is a distraction.”

He scanned the room to briefly note everyone's positions, then looked back at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Exactly,” she countered. “A distraction from whatever is stressing you or going wrong in life. Yeah, the aftermath is sometimes messy, but it can't always be helped.”

She shrugged, then scowled. “But do the books ever mention that? No, of course not, cuz it would 'ruin the narrative or mood' or whatever. Yeah, sure. I personally think it adds to it if the characters take care of one another after the deed is done.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about, woman?” he demanded, confused by the sudden rant about a topic she'd failed to let him know she was referring to.

“Books, Sherlock! Romance books! They hardly ever add the reality of the aftermath of sex in them, even if they are modern with no fantasy elements whatsoever and it just kind of irritates me.”

“Why would that bother you?” he asked. They were just books, after all. Fiction; made up.

“Because! I read those books a lot as a young teen and was pretty disappointed the first time I had sex. Not only was it not as good but, boy,” she laughed and shook my head, remembering it. “It happened so quick I wasn't sure anything happened at all.”

He frowned, not knowing what to do about the sudden darkness that rose inside his chest at the thought of her having sex with someone. She wasn't his and he wasn't interested in her that way. So it was ridiculous of him to feel like that.

“That sounds like a bad first time to have sex,” he finally decided to say.

“I learned my lesson,” she shrugged and looked back at the people gathered in the room, still talking.

“And the lesson was what, exactly?” he wanted to know.

“Don't have sex with boys,” Yn said. “So I waited until I was full-grown to try again. Much better, that time.”

She grinned, looking at him, before inhaling sharply. If she hadn't been standing next to him, he wouldn't have heard it, but he had, and it made him experience an emotion he was not familiar with, but it was not unwelcome. He gave her a slow smile, eyes glinting with that unfamiliar emotion and judging by how she cleared her throat and changed the subject, she was caught off guard and didn't know how to deal with the reaction it elicited in her.

“We should do presents before it gets any later. I don't fancy standing here listening to idle, inconsequential chatter all night.”

She moved away to speak with John before Sherlock said anything, and all he could do was smile slowly, eyes dark.


	17. Paint me like one of your consulting detectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aren't you bastards lucky? Two chapters in one day, WOOT

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also, I mean no offense by calling you guys motherfuckers or bastards. my family and friends use them as endearments so if you would take them as such that would be lovely as I really don't mean any insult or harm.

Ten minutes later, they are all exchanging gifts and when it was Yn's turn to give out gifts she seemed little startled.

“Oh, hold on,” she said. “I forgot them downstairs. I'll be right back.”

Yn darted downstairs and came back about five minutes later, struggling a little bit with trying to hold the three 15x20” and two 8x10” canvases that she had wrapped with different Christmas papers. John took the smaller ones from her hands and she gave him a grateful smile.

“Thank you, John,” she said and John simply nodded with a smile. She then turned her attention to the rest of the people in the room and got down to business.

“Molly, stand on the left side of the mantel, Lestrade, you're on the right. Mrs. Hudson if you'd stand by or sit on the couch that'd be lovely, John, sit in your chair, and that goes for you as well, Sherlock.”

He grouched but Yn set the wrapped up canvasses down and forced him to his seat, practically shoving him to his seat with both hands on his lower back, glaring until he rolled his eyes with a sigh and sat down in his chair, arms resting on the sides. She then stood at the front of the room and clapped her hands to get everyone's attention.

“Alright, ladies and gents, and Sherlock”-the man in question glared-”now that I've got your attention, its time I give you your gifts.” She handed Lestrade, Molly and Mrs. Hudson each one of the smaller canvasses, then gave the big 15x20” ones to john and Sherlock.

“On the count of three, y'all can open your gifts, and I really hope y'all enjoy them as I worked on them quite a bit. One, two, Three!”

The sound of tearing wrapping paper and a few gasps and small noises of awe and delight made me smile. Each one of them had gotten a portrait of either themselves, or something Yn knew they liked in acrylic paint.

Molly got a painting of her cat, Toby. Lestrade was given a head-shot portrait of himself and so was Mrs. Hudson. John received a painting in which he was shown to be interacting with a patient (made up one of course), and the kindness on his face was evident. And Sherlock?

Sherlock's gift was a painting of him looking out from the canvas, his eyes bright and alive, expression serious and captivating. I stood and simply smiled warmly as John, Molly, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson thanked me and complimented my skills. Sherlock, however was silent,his eyes on the painting.

Se was incredibly talented. The way she was able to capture the expression on his face, the light reflected in his eyes and hair, the vivid vibrancy that she showed with multiple layers of different shades of paint, the skillful use of dark colors to represent shadows without using a bunch of black paint or white for the highlights and lowlights. She actually took his breath away with her skill.

“Sherlock?” She questioned.

“Yes?” He looked up, blank faced as he processed the amount of detail and time it must have taken her to get that much accuracy. She had painted them to near perfection. And what amazed him was how many years, she must have been doing it.

“What do you think of it?” she asked.

He was silent as he thought of the best way to explain how he felt about it without giving away too much detail. He took so long that he noticed her playing with her fingernail, a nervous habit that he'd noticed she had.

“You have extraordinary talent,” he said at last. “And this was well done.”

“Thank you, I really hope it pleases your fancy,” She replied, beaming, releive evident in the way her shoulders relaxed. It told him how much she valued his opinion, and normally, he would scoff at it, but considering how skillful and beautiful the paintings were, he had only respect.

“I'll hang it up somewhere, in the living room, I think.”

“I've got frames and such for everyone just in case. But I'll give them to you when y'all start heading to bed,” Yn told them. “But I'm so glad you all enjoyed them. I've never painted so many in such a short time.”

She laughed, and in his mind, he basked in the sound.

“But you managed it, and they're beautiful, dearie,” Mrs. Hudson said to Yn kindly, who could only smile in response.

Christmas wasn't completely useless and annoying that year, he supposed.


	18. The Detective made me do it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an image I found on the internet but will show how Yn and Sherlock grow closer
> 
> the image in question: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contents of this Chapter: Blood, dirt, Foul insults in French, angry Cajun-French woman, accidental edible consumption, shady "experimental" ideas, bonding, threats of bodily harm/leaving bodily waste in people's belongings, a confused John Watson, etc.
> 
> What else is new?
> 
> French Translations at the end of chapter notes. If any french people read this and notice that I have incorrect grammar/usage/etc, please correct me! I used google translate and flipped the phrases between the two languages several times to make sure they didn't change. If that makes any sense.
> 
> Also, I asked a friend of mine (who is over 21) what it's like being high so that I could use it in my story. Thank you, dear friend, for trying your best to explain it to me! They kept getting frustrated because they didn't know how to explain how certain things felt properly, lol.
> 
> ALL CHARACTERS IN THIS CHAPTER ARE OVER 21!!!!!

I raised my head from where I had been staring at my now ruined jeans when I heard the door open ad looked over. It was John, coming home from where he worked as a doctor. I smiled at him, and he smiled back when he made eye contact, turning away to hang up his coat. My smile widened when his disappeared as he stilled and slowly looked back at Sherlock and I. The look on his face was priceless and I chuckled a little bit as he came over, shock written in the deep frown he wore.

“Why are you two absolutely covered in blood and dirt?” he demanded. “And why the bloody hell are you sitting in my chair like that?”

“It's his fault,” I had to put my tea on the small lamp table beside me, for I feared I would spill it I was giggling so much. “He decided it'd be a good idea to stab some poor pig and then bury it before digging it back up again for an experiment.”

“It was for a case, actually,” the detective corrected me.

“Whatever you say, _cher,”_ I chirped.

“My name is Sherlock, not Sher.”

“I was using the French endearment, you bloody swine.”

His unamused look at the terrible half joke-half pun had me in a giggling fit again until I choked on spit and began coughing.

“What is your problem, Yn? Are you high?”John asked.

“She may have accidentally eaten a marijuana-infused brownie,” Sherlock sipped his tea casually.

“_Oh, va te faire foutre, Sherlock,” _I growled at him._ “C'est aussi ta faute et tu le sais. ”_

“What is she saying?” John asked, seemingly confused. Not that I blamed him. My accent always thickened like syrup whenever I spoke French, making it almost impossible for others to understand me, especially if they didn't know French. Or what a Cajun-French accent sounded like.

“She's saying it's my fault that she ate it-”

“_Il est! Tu ne m'as pas dit qu'il y avait de la marijuana là-dedans, connard!”_

“And that I gave it to her without telling her there was Marijuana in it.”

“_Vous et votre expérimentation.”_

“Now she's mocking me for wanting to see how it affects her.”

“_Va te faire foutre, Sherlock,"_ I glared. _"Si mon esprit commence à descendre des sentiers sombres et que je finis par pleurer dans la baignoire, je cacherai à nouveau vos plaques de nicotine.”_

"Leave my nicotine out of it, woman,” Sherlock narrowed his eyes at me.

"Leave the Marijuana out of the brownies, _putain de bite d'huître,"_ I picked up my tea again, hoping it would make the weirdness in my head go away. It felt like I was sort of motion-dizzy and I had a weird pressure behind my eyes but it wasn't painful. Just odd. I'd never been high before.

"I do not look even _remotely_ like an oyster cock, Yn. Besides," Sherlock waved a hand dismissively as he sipped his own tea. "I made sure it was one of the lowest THC infused edibles."

"I still feel fucking weird," I muttered. "I either want to laugh hysterically or cry my fucking eyes out. Why did you decide to do this anyway?”

“Part of a case,” he replied and I rolled my eyes.

“Of course it is. And which case is that?”

“A man accused of murder was found to have had both marijuana and acid in his system when taken to the hospital after being arrested. I want to know if the substances he used were what caused him to freak out and supposedly kill his victim.”

“If ya put acid in anythin' I plan on consumin,' I will beat yer ass black an' blue.”

“Rein in the accent, I can't understand you.”

_“Va te faire foutre, connard.”_

“Are foul words all that you have, Miss Deveaux?”

“I could show you some foul actions, Mister Holmes.”

“Such as?”

“Taking a shit in your bedsheets and leaving it there for you to find after you come back from hunting down a lead. Or maybe leaving a dirty tampon in your shoe.”

“YN!” John exclaimed, his expression thoroughly disgusted yet a little bit admiring. “Bloody hell, woman, could you not?”

“If he puts acid in any of my food or drink I _will,_ John.”

“Fine, I won't put acid in your consumables,” Sherlock concedes with an annoyed sigh and rolling of his eyes.

“Haha, don't be cute,” I narrowed my eyes at him. “I know you'd do it to where it was absorbed by my skin when I touched something. No acid. Not for me, and not for you, either, mister.”

“How'd you guess?” he grumbled a little, obviously foiled.

“Because I can read you, Sherlock,” I told him, smug, yet teasing. “Perhaps not to the degree that you can read others, but I'm very observant.”

I stood up carefully, still feeling a little dizzy. My vision went fuzzy and blackened for a moment as I swayed on my feet. John steadied me with a hand.

“You okay?” John asked.

“Yeah, the blood in my legs returned to my head is all,” I replied. “Thank you.”

“Symptoms?” both he and Sherlock asked at the same time.

“Slight fatigue-type dizziness in the head, slight pressure behind my eyes, hyper-focus on whatever it is I'm doing, almost short term memory loss.”

“Almost?”

“Like it happened five seconds ago, but it feels like forever was recent. Almost hard to keep track of which thought led to which and why. Also, I want to sleep. But I need to shower first.”

I turned to leave after the momentary motion sickness passed, but I was stopped by Sherlock calling after me.

“Yn.”

I turned my head and raised an eyebrow.

“Come to me if you find yourself in a dark place.”

I smiled as my heart warmed. He really did care about his friends, whether he admitted they were his friends or that he cared or not. I winked at him.

“Will do, _ma cherie,” _I closed the door behind me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, va te faire foutre, Sherlock, c'est aussi ta faute et tu le sais: Oh, fuck you, Sherlock, it's also your fault and you know it.
> 
> Vous et votre expérimentation: You and your experimentation. 
> 
> Il est!: It is!
> 
> Tu ne m'as pas dit qu'il y avait de la marijuana là-dedans, connard: You didn't tell me there was marijuana in there, asshole!
> 
> Va te faire foutre, Sherlock: Fuck you, Sherlock.
> 
> Si mon esprit commence à descendre des sentiers sombres et que je finis par pleurer dans la baignoire, je cacherai à nouveau vos plaques de nicotine: If my mind starts to go down dark paths and I end up crying in the tub, I will hide your nicotine patches again.
> 
> putain de bite d'huître: you fucking oytser cock.
> 
> va te faire foutre, connard: Fuck you, asshole


	19. HELP I'M STUCK

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No, really, I'm stuck.

Uh yeah, idk where the hell i was going with this but i want it to tie into the plotline and build the slow burn but idk how. please give me some ideas, or music to listen to that you think would fit the story and maybe inspire me. I really really need ideas lol

But yeah

hope you are all enjoying the story, let me know if you see typos, grammatical and/or spelling errors, what you think so far, etc. Please comment, it always makes me smile. Feel free to ask questions as well.

I really really want to update again but idk how to continue from here rn


	20. Like a Good Pillow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Minor fluff, I guess? Sherlock is still a dick, but y'all know how to handle him, don't ya?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy **fuck**, y'all are so patient with me and I'm so happy you don't get mad at me for not posting for two months. You know it's funny: I thought with being home more often, I'd have more inspo to write more but nope. Somehow the lack of having a somewhat regular schedule to adhere to makes it worse. xD
> 
> Careful what ya wish for huh?
> 
> Speaking of careful, hope y'all are being safe and practicing good hygiene. The most important thing is to stay home, only go out when necessary and wash your hands frequently. And to all you Essential Workers: I love you so much. Please be safe and take care of yourselves. Treat yo self to whatever makes you happy. You'll need it. I myself am out of my job until further notice, and I'm bout ready to commit a double homicide.
> 
> It was much easier to stay inside when everyone else went out *sob*
> 
> Aaaaanyways, I hope ya'll enjoy this chapter.
> 
> (Lookit me, being a proper author, using the boxes correctly.)

Sherlock was correct when he guessed that my mind would make an attempt at going down a dark path since it was my first time ever being high on marijuana and the lack of experience and knowledge on how to keep my mind calm didn't help. Reaching for my phone, fighting against the darkness of my own self-loathing, I texted the one person I knew I could trust to get me through this.

**Darkness encroaches on me.**

**Metaphorically, or are you becoming blind?**

**Don't be an asshole. I'm already partially blind, thought I told you.**

**I regarded it as unimportant.**

**Of fucking course you did. Just get your ass down here, I don't want to be alone, right now.**

**Just don't ply me with incessant, inconsequential chatter.**

**Just don't be a dick, Sherlock. I just want your company.**

**Fine. I'll be down in a few minutes. Try not to spiral into a panic.**

I rolled my eyes and sighed, wondering in the back of my head if I could sober up enough to go buy some snacks from a nearby convenience store.

* * *

I was nearly dozing when my door opened and my nerves jumped ten feet. I sat up so quickly from where I'd been laying on my sofa to stare at the intruder. It was just Sherlock, and he looked at me with a raised eyebrow and a weird look, his equivalent of “Are you okay?”

I just motioned for him to come here. For once, he obeyed wordlessly and sat on the end of the sofa where my head had been. Once he was settled, I laid my head on his thigh. It was rather warm, comfortable, even, and I sighed, spine popping as I relaxed.

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly, and I turned my head to look at him out of the corner of my eye. He was staring down at me, seeming slightly perplexed and annoyed, with a hint of that unfathomable expression I often catch in his eyes.

“This is your fault, deal with it,” I said, moving my head back to where it was. “Besides, you're warm and surprisingly comfortable. I also happen to be tired. Consider this your penance.”

“I approve of your usage of that word.”

“I use a lot of words. Don't read into it.”

“As you wish, my lady.”

“Did you just-?”

“Princess Bride.”

“God, you're awesome.”

“I'm brilliant.”

“That too. Now shut up and let me pass out on you like a good pillow.”

* * *

Sherlock couldn't help but feel a little annoyed at that, but he kept his mouth shut. She was right, of course. It _was _his fault you were in such a state, and it was honestly a smaller price to pay than he had expected. Looking down, he saw that she was already passed out. He'd never admit it but... she was rather alluring. Perhaps just a tad less beautiful based on common beauty standards (which was just ridiculous, since beauty was simply an outdated social construct), but something about the way she kept surprising him, challenging him and just overall being hard to read fascinated him.

She was a smart lass, and he appreciated the fact that she didn't echo his sentences when she tagged along on cases. He'd never admit this either, but she contributed quite a bit to solving the more intriguing cases. She was, he supposed, a good friend. That is, if he had friends, which he did not (yet another thing he'd admit to having). He knew she'd most likely be out for awhile, to he resigned himself to being “a good pillow” as she put it, and trolled the public riddle forums on his phone (I.e, being an asshole about what was “blatantly obvious to anyone with half a brain cell”) while she slept.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you guys  
I **just now** discovered the horizontal line break function in the rich text editor...  
I'm fuckin dumb xD
> 
> Also, I am once again writing this at 3am. I'm wired as fuck cuz coffee and I know I'll crash later. 
> 
> Ooops


	21. Unexpected Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> MoAr FlUfF

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might be getting closer to the story climax than I originally intended... idk for sure yet, but things are starting to pick up the pace.
> 
> Honestly, I just like to write and see what my fingers end up typing. Sometimes (okay a lot of the time) it's mostly typos, grammar errors, and formatting issues. Oh well, we can't all be perfect, lol

Sherlock was still sitting on her couch, arms resting on the back while he contemplated puzzles in his mind, her head in his lap when a soft knock came from the door. He turned his head to face it and called softly for whoever it was to come in.

It was John, and as soon as he spotted them like that, he smiled softly, closing the door soundlessly before crossing his arms to lean against the wall. He caught Sherlock's gaze and gave him a knowing smirk.

“_She conscripted me to be 'a good pillow,”' _Sherlock whispered, using his finger for air-quotes.

John threw his head back and gave a silent laugh before replying.

“_Got you wrapped around her little finger, has she?”_

“_Shut up.”_

“_Well, anything you two might need when she wakes up?_

“_She's cold to the touch and I can't move. Grab that quilt and place it over her. And turn the thermostat up.”_

John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's bossiness but did it anyway.

“_Is that it, then, your Highness?”_ John's hands were on his hips.

Sherlock waved him away, and the older man just shook his head and walked out, softly closing the door.

* * *

I was woken from yet another devastatingly sad dream about my family by someone saying my name and shaking me firmly yet with a touch of gentility. I opened my eyes to find myself face to face with Sherlock's hipbone, tears leaking from my eyes. I looked up at him, and seeing even the slightest concern in his eyes made me give in completely to the overwhelming depression that had been present throughout the dream.

I sobbed, bringing my hands up to my face to cry into them. I felt yet another one of those firm touches pull me up by my shoulders to be hugged against a warm, broad chest. I clung to his neck and cried, clutching his shirt. At the same time, his arms wrapped around me, feeling strong while a small part of my brain had me inhaling his scent and tittering about the fact that I was basically straddling his lap.

A hand came up to hesitantly cup my head, and I nuzzled into him, trying to calm down.

“Deep breaths, little musician,” he murmured. “You're going to hyperventilate and pass out again.”

“Sh-shut up,” I gave a hiccuping, yet deep breath. “I kn-know that alrea-ready.”

A small chuckle, but it was lovely and surprising to hear. I don't think I'd heard him chuckle before. Not genuinely anyways. I kept taking deep breaths in an effort to calm down, but sometimes a pang in my heart would make my tears renew themselves. Less and less would I break into tears again. Somehow, I relaxed enough to fall asleep with my face in his neck, his arm and hand never moving.

* * *

When I woke sometime later, I was kind of pleased to find I was still in his lap, sitting sideways in almost bridal fashion, my face still in his neck. I wanted it to last longer by pretending to still be asleep but was foiled when he spoke.

“I know you're awake, your breathing pattern shortened.”

“Why sit me like this instead of laying me down?”

“Your hips were going to hurt and mine were starting to ache. Besides, this was much easier to do.”

“Never figured you to be one for such close physical contact.”

“I don't like tears. It's annoying.”

“Thank you, _mon cherie.”_

His hand simply moved to rest on my knee, his own gesture of kindness.

“Dare I say you fancy me?”

“Oh, jog on, Deveaux.”

“You're going to have to give me a valid reason, someday, Sherlock.”

“Can I not comfort you when you are clearly distressed?”

“You don't usually go for physical closeness.”

“I'm allowed to be mercurial.”

“Just don't toy with me. I'll make your life a living hell.”

“I believe you on that.”

“I win!”

“Americans. Such an incorrigible, unbearable breed you lot are.”

“Speak for yourself, scathing, condescending, doesn't-know-how-to-cook-good-food-worth-shit Brit.”

“Ouch.

“I win, yet again.”

“Fuckin American.”

“That's _British-American_ to _you,_ good sir.”

“Splitting hairs.”

“Dual citizenship.”

“...”

* * *

He didn't want her to get off his lap. It was nice, holding her like this. He told himself it was the least he could do to reward her for not lacking a brain, but a small part of his brain said otherwise. He ignored it like he usually does.

  
  



	22. Ink of a Different Color

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Welp my computer took a nosedive into the trash bin the other day. Not 100% sure why but I suspect is either the battery or the charger port itself (charger port = where you plug the charger cord into). But I hesitate to spend money on a battery I don’t need if it really is the charge port that’s fucked up. Once the charger port goes out it’s usually worth it to buy a new laptop entirely instead of spending about the same amount money to fix it. 😫
> 
> So if there’s any grammar errors, spelling mishaps, missing punctuation and such, blame it on the fact that I’m typing these next few chapters on my phone.

“You’re fucking stupid.”

“How am  I the one who is stupid?”

“You put the wrong bloody damned acid into the beaker, imbecile!”

“At least  I  didn’t spill it every-fucking-where.”

“Whatever.”

“Whatever my ass. You keep on with that attitude,  detective and you’ll be without your precious nicotine for three months.”

“You underestimate my abilities.”

“You do realize you’re not the only one with contacts right? How about I call brother dearest and actually give him a bit of truth, huh? Tell him what his little bro has been doing lately, and you’ll find yourself without anyone to encourage your vices.”

“You’re a goddamned snake.”

“No, I just play to get even. Stupid I may be, above revenge I am not.”

Grumbling. 

“Well as far as idiots go, you’re not the biggest one.”

Smack!

“Okay fine you’re not an idiot,” Sherlock rubbed his cheek out of shock more than pain. “You’re actually less of an idiot than most.”

“Thank you. Now help me clean up, I don’t know what to dm actually  do with all of this shit.”

“It’s not shit, it’s acidic formula.”

“Poe tay toe, poe tot oh.”

“Americans and their euphemisms.”

“Brits and their pigheadedness.”

Thirty minutes, a shower, and some clean clothes without acid holes in them later, I was sitting in Sherlock’s chair, waiting for him to get out of the shower himself as I played a game on my phone.

I didn’t look up when I heard footsteps, the distinct noise of his black shoes coming to stop in front of me.

“You’re in my chair.”

“No shit, Sherlock.”

“Get out of it.”

“Not unless you get a tattoo with me.”

“I’m not getting a tattoo.”

“Come on, Sherlock, live a little.”

“Living is boring.”

“Why are you still breathing then?” I looked up at him and promptly laughed at his expression. “Come on, luv,” I teased with my best British accent. “We’ll just pop in for a drop of ink and then go for a bite of food. That’s all.”

“Why do you want a tattoo?”

“Memorial for my family, personal tattoo design I’ve always wanted,” I listed off, them hesitated.

“Let me guess, you’d rather have a tattoo of a birthmark than not have one at all?” How he knew or guessed I don’t know.

“Maybe,” I crossed my arms and looked away, feeling stung. I heard his clothing whisper as he moved and then he was turning my head with those gentle fingers of his, making my eyes look into his bright blue ones.

“Maybe I don’t judge you for that,” he murmured. “

I swallowed the sudden lump in my throat and leaned forwards to rest my forehead on his shoulder. I don’t know why, but he let me get away with touching him far more than he ever would with anyone else. I guess it’s because we both had similar pasts in terms of being outcasts in society. Still, I wasn’t going to take it for granted.

“Let’s go get inked as they say,” he gave a rare, genuinely warm smile that brightened his eyes. I smiled back.

“Yes, lets go get inked,” I agreed. We grabbed our coats from their respective hangers by the door and headed out. 

* * *

After hailing a taxi, I directed the driver to the parlor I’d chosen and once we arrived I took a moment to appreciate the flowing artistry of the sign that proclaimed the name of the tattoo parlor.

“I Ink Sins Tattoo” was the name written in beautiful black calligraphy on a crimson red background. I tugged on Sherlock’s arm and pulled him inside. There was a front desk with a cash register and a pretty receptionist who had a sleeve of tattoos on her right arm, and a bright smile on her face.

“How May I help you?” She asked us.

“I came here with my friend to get a few tattoos,” I told her, stepping forwards while Sherlock gazed around the place. “I don’t know if he’s going to get one though.”

“Oh, I am, Yn,” he said. “Not very big though.”

“You changed your mind?” I asked, surprised.

“I am allowed to be mercurial,” was his typical reply to me. I rolled my eyes.

“You know once it’s on you it’s pretty much forever right? There’s no being mercurial about that.”

“I know what I want.”

“Oh kayyyyy,” I sang. “If you’re sure.”

The receptionist merely chuckled at us and directed us to where two of the tattooists were currently open. We each sat down with one, and I asked for a piece of paper so I could show the dude what I wanted occasionally sneaking glances at how Sherlock was doing.

This time, when I glanced over, he had take off his jacket and was unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his chest, which was surprisingly toned for a man who didn’t really work out. Or at least I didn’t know if he did. I caught his gaze, blushed a little at how intense it was, bit my lip and turned back to the tattooist.

“So ye want these three small animals on yer right shoulder blade with ‘Ave Atque Vale’ beneath in this calligraphy, correct?”

“Yes.”

“And then this little dragon and moon thing on the inside of yer left wrist?”

“Yes. And I know it’s strange but, could you maybe do some sort of fingerprints on the inside of my hips? Like someone grabbed them? Kind of like how birthmarks are but in purples and blues?”

The tattooist gave me a look that made me shift my gaze downwards, and old habit from when I was bullied.

“It’s okay, lass,” the man said. “I’m not here to judge ye, just to ink ya.” I lifted my head at that and smiled.

“Thank you. So how long do you think this will take?”

“Well aside from the fingerprints, the other two a relatively small and should take only 30 minutes each. And unless you want a blobby shape, I suggest borrowing someone’s hand to use as a template for those fingerprints.”

“Hmmm,” I bit my lip and looked over at Sherlock who was watching the other tattooist draw whatever it was that he wanted. He still had the buttons on his shirt undone which I found attractive but did my best to ignore.

“Sherlock,” I called. “Can you come here please?” He stood with a raised brow but came over anyways.

“What is it?” He asked.

“This is going to sound odd but... could you let me use your fingerprints for the tattoos I want on my hips?” My cheeks heated a little.

“How would you do that?” 

“We have this special blue dye of sorts,” the tattooist said. “We put it on your hands and fingers, you place them where she wants them, they leave enough details for us to tattoo them on. Like paint, almost.”

Sherlock seemed to think it over for a bit, his eyes boring into mine and I couldn’t help but shift nervously.

“Sure,” he said finally and I let out a breath I hadn’t known I was holding.

“Thank you, Sherlock,” I grabbed his hand and held it. “It means a lot to me.” He merely gave a faint smirk and asked the tattooist to put the dye on his hands. He did, and since I would have to for my shoulder tattoo anyways, I removed my shirt, leaving only my sports bra underneath. My bra covered most of my chest so it wasn’t a problem to me. I slid my my waistband down just a few inches to reveal my hipbones then I stood and asked Sherlock to stand behind me to grab my hips.

When he moved behind me, he was so close I could feel the heat from his skin and shivered when his strong chest pressed against my back. He brought his hands around to grab my hips right where I wanted without me having to tell him. Something about the way he did it and the way it felt just seemed so right to me and I did my best not to lose my head.

“Keep your fingers like for a few more seconds and then carefully let go so as not to smudge the marks,” the tattooist instructed. Torture.

Finally, the torture went away and I thanked Sherlock again as he stepped away and I sat on the tattoo chair, the tattooist getting ready to start. I looked over at Sherlock as he, too sat on the chair while something was tattooed onto the right side of his chest. His gaze was intense, almost dark in a way that left me kind of breathless. I didn’t know what it was, if it was just me or what, but I couldn’t look away and barely felt the needle as it buzzed, creating a colorful scar in my skin. 


	23. Tattoos and Whiskey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still no computer sadly, so there will defintely be typos, grammar errors and misspellings and such. Oh well, let me know what you think and I hope you enjoy the next few chapters. It might be about 5 or more chaoelters before we get to the big event, but stay with me, I have an idea. I promise. 😉
> 
> Chapter title is based on this little quote I have on my hip flask: “Tattoos and Whiskey Make Me Frisky.”  
It’s just a really fun phrase to me lol
> 
> Im sorry if it seems short compared to most of my other chapters but I really hope that you enjoy this.
> 
> Stay Safe Lovelies 😘❤️

After the tattooist was done with my tattoos, he covered them with the bandage and instructed me on how to care for them until they healed and I thanked him, pulling my shirt back and and wincing at the sting in my shoulder. I thanked him and turned to Sherlock, who was talking with the female tattooist who had been working on him, buttoning his shirt back up.

“You ready to go, luv?” I asked him. 

“Yes,” he said as he stood up and grabbed his coat. “Let’s go pay.”

“I’m paying for mine and yours Sherlock,” I told him as we approached the receptionist desk. “Don’t worry about it.”

The receptionist looked up when I said his name, her brown eyes wide. 

“Sherlock? As in Sherlock Holmes?” She asked. 

“Yes, that would be me,” he drawled. 

“You got my brother out of a jail sentence he was framed for,” she vibrated with joy. “Since I really cannot repay you enough for that, I’ll give you a 30% discount.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “But I really cannot stop you.”

“Thank you,” I told her, smiling. “How much?”

“$250, with the discount,” she replied and I handed her my debit card. 

I turned to Sherlock with and gave him a thoughtful look. 

“I should take you on walks more often.” He scowled at me. 

“I’m not a dog.”

“Of course you’re not, pet,” I smirked. He scowled even harder, if that were possible. 

“What? It’s a Brit endearment, is it not?”

Sherlock made no comment but glared at me. The receptionist handed me back my card, printed me a receipt and bid us good day. I thanked her and dragged Sherlock out of the parlor. It was now nearly evening, having left around noon and the tattoos had taken awhile. My stomach growled and Sherlock and I shared a look. 

“Thai?”

“Yes.”

“Oy! Taxi!” 

When we returned home, it was 9pm and we were full and tired. I hung my coat up, kicked off my shoes and padded into the kitchen. 

“What do you want, Sherlock?” I called to him as he padded past me. 

“What’ve you got in mind?”

“Well a hot toddy with whiskey sounds good to me.”

“Coffee in mine, not cocoa.”

I cleared my throat as a hint. 

“Please,” he added. 

“Alright.”

Ten minutes later I walked into the living room to see he’d started a fire in the fireplace, the flames casting the left side of his face into shadow, the right side highlighted and almost softened by the light. I handed him his mug and he thanked me with a nod of his head. We sat in silence and I eventually emptied my mug, curling up in John’s chair. I don’t remember my eyes closing, but when I next opened them, I was in my own bed downstairs, my favorite quilt over me. 

* * *

Sherlock sipped at his drink and watched her subtly as she watched the flames, sipping from her own mug. The firelight upon her revealed the natural raven blue tones in her hair, accentuated her features and made the color of her eyes pop. In the light of the flames, her eyes could be mistaken as an amber color, the partially blind one a fainter shade. She was beautiful, even when she curled up into John’s chair, mouth slightly open as she slept, lips parted as if to kiss someone.

He finished his drink and stood to carefully pick her up from the chair bridal style. It was tricky trying to open the door and walk downstairs without tripping or slipping in his socked feet, but he managed it. She’d left her apartment unlocked, which would be a problem he would bring up later, but right now he was glad he didn’t have to struggle with that knob too. He made his way for her bedroom and shifted her weight to be held with one arm while the other pulled the sheets back before laying her down.

He covered her with the sheets, then looked around for a heavier blanket to go on top. It was cold in there and he knew she’d not feel good if she slept without a blanket. Spotting an old quilt that was obviously well worn and loved, he picked it up and was pleased at the weight of it. It had at least three layers, which was perfect. He unfolded it and carefully laid it over her, tucking it in at her shoulders and feet before walking into her living room.

Sherlock withdrew his lighter as he approached her own fireplace and stacked a few logs in the fire, placed some extra newspaper on top, squirted some lighter fluid into it from a small bottle, then lit it with his lighter.He coaxed the small flames into bigger ones, then closed the grate when he was satisfied that the fire would sustain it for long enough to warm the place up. He walked out and picked the doorknob behind him, heading back upstairs. 


	24. Wouldn’t You Be Lonely, Too?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucky bastards you lot are, two (possibly three) chapters in one day. 
> 
> I’m sorry if this is a bit dramatic, I’m just trying to build up to the big event 😉

I don’t know if it was just me, but in the months since Sherlock and I had gotten our tattoos and the morning afterwards where I had woken up in my bed instead of John’s chair, Sherlock seemed like maybe he actually cared about me. He was more responsive, let me get away with touching him in ways that others would be snapped at for doing. He did kind things for me without me asking him or or him saying a word about it. It was confusing. But deep down inside, I wondered if maybe he liked me as more than a friend. I decided maybe I should just have an outright talk with him about the thing he knew a little of, just to gauge how he felt about romantic things. 

“Sherlock,” I stopped him at his front door, having come upstairs to wait for him to get back from a case. “I’d like to speak with you in your room. It’s important.”

He raised an eyebrow at me, but the way his eyes flickered told me he had an idea as to what it was I wanted to talk about. I went and sat down on the bed in his room, blankly staring at the mess as I waited for him. Only a minute or two later and he joined me, closing the door behind him before he sat next me. 

“You wanted to talk?”

_ “Oui,” _ I replied taking a breath. “I wanted to talk about birthmarks and soulmates.”

“You don’t have a mark,” he said softly. It wasn’t a question. 

“None that I can find. It’s partly why I asked you to help at the parlor. If I can’t have a natural mark, I’ll make my own. At least I won’t be shunned anymore.”

“Why my hands though? Why not someone else’s?”

“Because I trust you and I consider you a friend. And you’ve never once judged me for lacking what you and the rest of the population have. John, sweet as he is, treats me a little differently lately.”

“What happened between you two?” he asked as I took his hand in mine to study the black marks upon his fingers and palms. 

“We were talking about this very subject,” I replied softly. “I don’t remember how it came up, but John asked me where mine was and I stupidly said I didn’t know if I even had one. I know he doesn’t really think of me differently, I’m still his friend. But it’s awkward not knowing how to say you’re sorry for something beyond control that has so obviously affected your friend’s life while also trying to fathom the fact that she doesn’t have the same thing you do.” I looked up at him to see his eyes, currently silver blue like a rainy sky, looking at me with an unfathomable yet comforting expression. 

“I really am sure I don’t have a birthmark, Sherlock,” my voice cracked and my accent thickened. “Everyone reminds me of it, I moved from home ta here, ta get away. But all I can hear in my head is them tellin me I don’t belong, that I’m the reason my family died. That it’s my fault a drunk driver an his stupid friends collided head on wi’ my family’s truck. All because I doan have a stupid birthmark!”

“I’ll be lucky to have anyone,” I whisper. “No one wants to be with a freak. No matter how much money they make or how nice they are.” I looked at Sherlock. 

“You got shunned for being smart at least, for being better than them,” I told him. “You’ve got the marks. You get to have someone. I don’t.”

“I wouldn’t know how to deal with a soulmate,” he replied. “I don’t even want them. Caring is a liability and love is a chemical imbalance in the brain that causes us to form attachments. Sentiment is what it is.”

“Oh? Then if love is just a chemical what’s this Sherlock?” I grabbed his ink-marked hands. “What is this? Why do ya have it and I doan? Why does everyone else have it and I doan? How is that fair?” I shook a little tears threatening to spill. 

“I might be half blind, but at least I can see what a gift a soulmate would be, Sherlock. And I am certainly not blind ta how you’ve been lately. I doan know what it is and I’m not goin to complain but all I ask of ya is this: doan toy wi’ me, doan push your soulmate away when ya find them. They might be the only one left standing by your side when everyone else gives you up.”

I got up and left, slamming the door. Tears blurred my vision as I headed back to my own apartment, nearly knocking a grocery-laden John the stairs. I muttered an apology and made it to my apartment, slamming the door and locking it. I ran to my bed and flopped down on it to let loose the tears. 

How was it that I didn’t get a soulmate? Why did I have to attempt to fill the void with inked fingerprints that would otherwise never be there? If there was such a thing as a god, they’d forgotten me in favor of everyone else. I’d done my research. There wasn’t any record of someone not having a mark before. 

Why was  _ I  _ the one who’d been forsaken and left lonely? I didn’t even have a chance with the man I wanted because he had what I could never: a birthmark that said there was someone out there for him, fated to be his. 

I was no one’s. 

* * *

Sherlock sat on his bed after Yn had left, fingers together under his chin in thought. He now understood the depth of the emotional pain she always hid behind an easy smile and fire cracking wit. Born without a mark, she’d been ostracized since she could understand what a birthmark meant. She’d been blamed for her parents and grandmother’s death, even though she’d been working when the accident occurred. She’d left her native lands to get away from the bullying but the pain had followed her. 

He didn’t look up from his thoughts when an out of breath John opened his door and demanded to know why Yn was crying. 

“She doesn’t have these,” he unfolded his hands and turned them palm up in front of him to look at them. “She never has and everyone has reminded her of it and shoved it in her face.” He looked at John. “They treat her like a pariah when they find out. They blamed her for the deaths of her family because she has no marks. She’s lonely, John. Wouldn’t you be?”

He stood up and pushed past, slipping his jacket and scarf on before slamming the door as he left. 

John stood there, feeling guilty for how he’d been treating her since she told him she was markless. She didn’t deserve the reserved ness he’d been subjecting her to. It wasn’t her fault. He took in a deep breath, let it out and thought of what to do. An idea came to mind and he, too, grabbed his jacket and left the flat. 

**Author's Note:**

> I made this ambient sort of thing to listen to while I type this.  
[You can find and listen to it here while you read if you would like.](https://ambient-music.ambient-mixer.com/night-at-221b-baker-street)


End file.
